…what’s your plan?”, asks the man sitting across the table.
“I really don’t know.”, I reply, tentatively.
The leaves rustle, as if surprised by the breeze.
“When do you plan to leave?”, he prompts again, sipping whisky, his eyes on me.
“I don’t know”, I shrug, “next month maybe”.
“Good. Not that I know about everything that’s going on in my life”, another sip. “I’m just asking, that’s all”
“There’s nothing wrong in you asking”
“I feel we are searching for something, seeking…”.
“Aren’t we all”, I say somewhat philosophically, reminded of Annie Lennox singing “Sweet dreams (are made of this).
“You’re right”, says the man somewhat glumly.
” But there’s difference in the way we are going about, I think”.
“I don’t think we are searching. We are finding. That is the only thing left to do when all is irretrievably lost. I mean, how can I look for something that I know is gone”.
“Are we still not looking for something”, he says, further reminding me of Ms. Lennox.
“Yes, and so is that something looking for us…it is just a matter of time”
A crow caws eagerly as dawn rushes from under.