The Cause of It

Something is happening here, a secret ceremony I have encountered and become entrapped by, like a silent auction or a Paiute marriage proposal.

 

I am the person who played a part in the rite, but I'm someone else entirely offstage. The intended I have not seen, but have great respect and admiration for, only my daylife is where I live, and I must go back.

 

But I'm not released. There are these details along a dusty street of a strange dreamscape. I have disappointed some, enraged others. They discuss it in groups, casting occasional glances at me. I smile, blinking.

 

They enter my daytime now, wading in like indians into a cabin in old movies. They show grim countenance, offer complaints. I have offended someone. He is just outside on the lawn.

 

Sorry.

 

I enter a cafe to stanch all this disappointment milling about. Yes, but I must go back sometime. My intended is working here. She makes no special play or demonstration; she speaks without looking at me, as if she's planning a fire drill should one ever come. She is small and freckled and pretty but she won't look at me. I like her fine but indeed I must go back.

 

Here she is on the dusty street. She covers her eyes with her hand. She is in pain! She is disabled? She lays down. I see she lives in an auto within the cafe. I really must do something. I must go back.

 

When I'm back with Niki J, still some hover. One of them charges me with disrespect to one hombre he names, perhaps the father of the bride who won't be a bride after all. I'm glad he does not mention the reason for the disagreement. Niki J has a plan for assuaging all this anger, and I'm only glad she isn't aware of the cause of it.

 

But, then, neither am I.