Berlin Corridor

Send me home or kill me he said to her as she looked on at it, ants without appetites, wolverines with the taste of old XLR connectors on their breath, wanting to work. His black beefy T-shirt was posted with large angry electric yellow letters screaming “WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T HELP ME” in English, Japanese, German, Taglog, Farsi and Esperanto. He struggled. She just wanted a clean shaven face between her legs morning like a middle eastern mother who’d lost her six children to a bomb meant for her husband and his foul smelling work buddies. Neither would know what she said that night.

Meanwhile her sister leaned over a stranger, her warm breasts wrapped around him like a gourmet meal, he looked retarded, happy and 200 dollars lighter. Being a people pleaser, she smiled.

If hope was a tree, they both lived in a parking lot filled with Matadors and Pacers.

The two men met later at a convenience store next to a wire rack filled with car signs saying “If you don’t like my driving, dial 1 (800) EAT SHIT”. did a complicated secret hand shake, went home alone and cried themselves to sleep.