The Arroyo

My dreams are in shades of gray, but they shimmer.

In an urban setting is a grotto, an arroyo seco; the buildings seem to be melting into a central dry creekbed, like sewage in slums, but this is an upscale mercantile mess. We pass down this chute on foot, some of us.

And some of us expire. We carry them to the banks of the seco, and we place them carefully and tenderly on the bluff just off the passage. (The bottom of the arroyo is as uneven as any creekbed, but I don't see how a current could have formed this configuration in a major metropolitan area.)

A moderately overweight one with a pained but kindly expression is settled beside the arroyo. We ceremoniously carry and deposit him and return to the arroyo. There is nothing else to be done.

The mansion off the arroyo has many rooms. I'm passing from one to another, and there is really no symmetry. It's like people; some end off and another begins and there's no rhyme or reason to it.

I know before I see the large crates. Reloj is back. I see his goods stored fresh from the movers in an airy fringe to a corridor off a suite. I see Reloj's hair is long, luxurious even. He turns to see who is coming, then turns back without greeting.

I'm sitting with him over breakfast, or maybe dinner, as I'm not aware which end of the day we belong to, or what's on the table. There is talk, but strangely we aren't talking. I am conscious he does not seem aware of me.

There is a point when he will be leaving, of course, and then he's gone, without any reference to that transition. I just become aware at some point he's gone.