Sunday afternoon in Queens

Ursula and the others count to 39 and then 64.  The significance doesn’t register immediately.  I change and wait.  We observe each other.  I drop.  Fast.  Laughter.

Part mash-up, part roast, I’ve stolen moments from Ursula in order to return them in new packaging.  My shirt is threadbare.  I lunge.  I give instructions.  I stab myself, shoot myself, strangle myself and set myself on fire.  All in good fun.  The paper unicorn is the only one in real danger; his sad tumble is beautiful, but final.

Yet, in every ending, there is a beginning.

We cool off with frozen towels, mango and home-made yogurt.  The afternoon stretches into evening.

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