boom doom

I've seen things you will not imagine, said the African man.
I bet not, says the Irish woman.
He's handsome, she says to me.
I don't give a fuck, I say but felt bad about it.
She held her head, cupped it on the right side. I caught her reflection in the spoon.
I don't like St. Patrick's Day, I tell her. Patrick was an Italian anyway.
I felt bad immediately for being such an asshole, the thick glass protective shield.
Well, you're no fun, she said deflecting my bad attitude and holding me stasis.
That man's fought a war, I tell her. He's telling you now.
What this might mean to her I wouldn't know.
I haven't fought a war my friend, the man says to me leaning over the girl to make contact.
No?
No. I've lost my family to immigration laws. They can not come here from Darfur.
Are they caught in conflict?
No. The laws have changed and they give no more visas to us. I'm here, they're there.
I nod.
The girl looks up from her beer.
Silence.
What will you do now?, I ask.
What will you do now?, she asks in near unison.
The man is silent then says, I will go to work in the morning, file and then ask again. Then he walked away.
I glanced back to the girl but she was lost in thought, staring into the spoon.
Babe?
Yea?
Let's go.
Yea.
Back in the car she asks, Rose, where we headin?
West, I think.
West?, she says pointing to the compass, a little bubbly thing filled with air and swinging incoherently to North then West then North then South. Impossible to tell what's what.
How about home?
That sounds good.
And I hit the gas flipping her back in the seat off balance for a moment.
Get your bearings doll, pick 'em up, I think.
And we were back on track.
Track? There are no tracks here.
Did I just say that doll?
Say that? You scream it Rose.
Fuck intention, I think. Still unsure where home is.