The plan was to meet them there.There’d been some fumbling and messing about with how to get there in somewhat written form, floating around.
I dreaded the agreement to a meet up even the moment it came out of my mind’s mouth.
I wasted some time at home, knowing the time of the meet up was here.
“I’ll wait a while, then go - give them some time to get there”, i thought.
I clean up and head out the door.
I go to where i had figured out the meet point was.
I make the due call, stating my whereabouts and wait for the confirmation i knew was to come, that i am not, in fact, in the right place.
During our telephone engagement, and afterwards, going back to our written correspondence, i realize, she was rather horrific at giving good directions.
Or perhaps i was just nervous.
It’s not here and now i’m twisting through these dead-end roads, semi-lost and losing momentum.
“Alright, let’s find this place, then sit in the car for about a quarter of an hour, until i figure out what i’m going to do”.
I finally reach the point, which in actual fact i had passed by earlier and noticed to be deserted and what appeared to be unwelcoming to passing traffic, thought it was there, and left.
So, at least when i say her directions were misleading, even unforeseeing, the gate i was supposed to enter (were i indeed finally in the correct place) remained nonetheless solemnly closed shut.
A cop car meanders past, its blue light idly revolving on its top.
My apartment too beckons an imaginary light in the sky asking me back to its cave-like lethargic depths.
I speed off home.
As i park the car, i open the bottle of beer i had with me for Dutch courage, should i have needed it; as the radio immortalizing Mrs. Whinehouse one more lovely time, it reminding me, one more damn time, that once again it’s just me and Mr. Jones
Who needs friends when you’ve got deamons?
Deamons who perch on your shoulder blurting out vacuous words at the spaceous void that exist between where he stands and everyone else.