My Fake Address

The sailor looked for me on shore. He rented a scooter and followed me into the mountains. I knew how much I had stolen from him but guilt kept reminding me of someone else I had wronged. There was too much guilt inside me to worry about a little extra from a sailor.

He pulled his pistol when he found me. I bowed in defeat and offered him my tongue. He pretended to shoot it, then pinched me instead. He could tell, he said, by the white hair that emerged from my young ears trembling, I had once been in love and was miserable in trying to find my way back. We saluted each other for being human and he let me live.

Some things happen that way.

We drank absinthe together throughout the night. I never paid him back because I couldn’t at the time but he understood. We traded contact information and silver locusts as souvenirs, saying things like: “I move a lot but always leave notice. I am, like you, an easy man to find.”

Only now, admitting it to you, anonymous reader, do I regret my fake address.

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