You wander the back alleys of the old towns in sunlight. There is a security here between two brick walls,

but like the road, stretching above a space torn away to reveal only sky,

one pinpoint of light, back to another, you turn your shoulders parallel, you stare forward, you try to see them both at once but you cannot.

One end, or the other.

Walking backward staring at the entrance, a red wash from crumbling bricks, a congealing puddle run stagnant in the cracks

is a great way to go willingly into the clutches of another, unseen,

the moment skin touches skin, a seizure

* * *

You should have been watching

he is dangerous. He’s a rapist. He’s there to hurt you.

.

You turn around and bear witness to whichever mistake, realize a jarring truth

.

he’s a friend, coming to say hi

he’s a monster.

.

Turn around. Walk forward. Problem solved. Outrun the clutches, see him coming.

climb the walls and look down. See the alley entire. See him and the one wearing the mask.

* * *

He called again. Hot sun creeping slow around the roof’s edge, crawling down the wall, a two dimensional attack. Comical in it’s advance. I think it likes the laughter.

I answer the cell. I don’t know why.

Crackle. Static. Electronic Kyle.

“You should really get a new cell dude.”

“Hi Katie.”

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

“Yes?”

I think it likes the laughter.

* * *

You watch the twilight crowds in your old town. In your down town. In your bar scene and ice cream parlors.

Camera posing and giggling, sober yet, give it time. Sweet escape. Mini skirts and open clothes.

You search out the dark one, because he has to be here. He’s among company. Best to hide in the dark, where he’d blend in, best to hide among the torrents of others.

Fleeting glances, afraid for eye contact. There’s a wild look in my eyes, a frantic, animal flickering, too wide, too fast. Best to cast your eyes down but you can’t. You have to watch for him. He’ll be appearing behind the corner of that shop any second. He’ll be there. And he’ll stare. And he won’t need the phone anymore.

* * *

You stumble home, you embrace the cool feel of the night. You watch a mosquito dig deep and suck hard. You watch the moon shine bright and pretend its light is not from the sun.

You see Kyle on his front steps smoking something. You see the way his eyes plead with you, a frustration gone, a sadness, a confusion.

Your phone rings in your pocket.

You don’t need to answer it to know who it is.

You stand still and look into his eyes.

He shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak but the time for words has fled.

Your phone rings in your pocket.

But doesn’t go silent.

“I’m so sorry, Kyle.” And you mean it. And that’s why it’s so scary.