Under Construction…

Under Construction…

“This is a piece called Music for Eighteen Musicians”, he says as the rain pelts the fifty-five mile an hour conversation, gaping with pauses, of the newly acquainted boy and girl. The city is thirty some miles from edge to edge and their chance meeting happened at least a third the miles from one side of it, near the rail yard and canals. The car could make it two and a half times the length of the city before the end of the piece if they could make it that far away from the comfort of city light, the close blocks of homes, only in starlight, the only place to see the colors of the stars. They would end after not much longer in a haze of pink light and dust pollution. Perhaps he dwelled on things too far off having only met the girl in recent hours at a bar above a gay dance hall. The car passed through the patch of rain, as they still spoke a little of their quirks, dropping the windows down to smell the mix of wet pavement, rock and far off creosote bushes which spot the desert on the west side of the mountain but become only smell carried by wet wind into the windows of cars on the highway east of the old fallen hills. That is where we stand, she says, breathing in.

“It sounds like a bad teen movie,” she points out as they pass houses with hallways lit by small lights, enough to comfort those afraid of the dark. The rain continues and a small amount of its smell enters her womb stopped there on the side of an embankment where cops would not see. The smell sits in there until some years later when two are in a delivery room when as before this couple met by chance and now she is a mother as he sees inside her womb. The smell of rain which he breathes in, carries in him until one night, having gone very far beyond the haze, he lays his child in a dim glow of light from a narrow hallway between their rooms to say to her, “Listen to this.”

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