Reflection

No mirrors in this abode, I decided to rely on my personal discretion; a flat circle I keep in a pocket is an emergency reflection. Otherwise my personal indulgence is my partner for illicit behaviorism, I call him Miko. We lay alongside each other separated by a slab of slim leather embossed cushion smooth as slate, softer than cooling lava; back to back one is red the other purple. The kitchen is without cupboards and nooks; there is a frozen receptacle the size of a Volkswagen beetle, we do not interest in refrigeration. Traditional stove without plugs is the role of fireplace also functioning off into a table formation used as a hibachi; this centers the concrete floor of this rectangular portion. We often gaze into the direction of a window facing a blasted city of anonymity as we venture up the split box in the middle aluminum alloy staircase to the rooftop water garden; this is where we meditate discovery.

"We ought to be elsewhere it seems..."

"Yes...I often feel I am missing my own self."

"Where do you think our self will be?"

"Somewhere we wish not to go."

"Perhaps the encounter will allow our self to be everywhere..."

"We may lose our self to everything."

"This experience is difficult to enjoy."

"Yes..."

"There must be somebody we miss terribly..."

"Yes..."

"I will miss you terribly."

"I already miss you; I fear the emotion will worsen."

A white helicopter hovers to a weaving spot above a building we rarely discuss; often we divert this street while visiting our muses.

"We must see what is inside..."

"Must we.....?"

"If we do not we will by unfortunate circumstance."

"As you wish..."

Brake less wonder of backbreaking soldered metal composition, tougher than bone harder than steel, sits at the bottom level against a block pillar; I rather not clean him up, I prefer him to be hideous for the notorious bike theft capital. Quasimoto is compiled of high quality pieces wearing the collar a dirty dog itches for the pound; the catcher misses him every time, only a thoroughbred knows about the golden boy. Sitting next to the hunchback is a board flamed from the sweetest maple tree in all of British Columbia dressed in scratches, a soldier with many stories; hardware on this decorated hero is top notch side splitting spinners disguised as the veteran of masked illusion, the battle awaits the street fighter.

Jointed spring torsion garage door coils similar to a large shutter from a massive chain; the sides are tempered smooth inside a lengthwise indentation chamber wired to a switch. Black as a funeral of night awaits our exit into the emptiness of the stationed block. One street lamp shaped as a book light with a triangular wrapped round on the edge bulb shines for the path we intent traveling.

Nearing the block of orange sliding across yellow flashing lights ominous of an eerie silence, we follow a box shaped egg on chrome wheels into an underground passageway. Our transportation locks into a snug dry corner set aside for equipment; the walk finds us in a stairwell with thirty-three levels each composed of three break off cases of steps.

"Neither one of these ladies know how they got here..."

"You mean they don't know where they are..."

"That's what I get from what the team has been talking about."

"I'll be a damned country boy..."

"I'll be a damned cowboy..."

"Shit man...what do they look like?"

"One has long dark straight hair with dark eyes, the other's got long curly blonde hair with blue eyes, they're both young, they both got the same reason to be here whatever that may be, and both of them are Jane Doe for our paperwork."

"Who gives a rat's ass about paperwork anyways..."

"The rats aren't giving up their precious behinds for the checklist; I wouldn't either."

"What's up with them?"

"Both got the highest fevers we ever seen on a digital and a manual; both of them refuse the needle bags for vitamins and minerals. Both of them refuse meds. Both of them pale as a ghost."

"How did you find them?"

"How did you know I found them?"

"You know a lot about why they are here..."

"Well..."

"Yeah......"

"I was picking up some wacky tobacco from the Stew Pot when I saw them..."

"What were they doing?"

"You sure you want to know about this? Some things better left for our selves to wonder..."

"Well I'm wondering for my self."

"They were walking out the cemetery..."

"I don't blame them...what did you name them?"

"The dark girl I named Victoria...she reminds me of this book I read about the Victorian age...found it while I was waiting for a train on the bench...it was a rainy day too..."

"What about the other girl?"

"I'll be damned..."

"Why you say that?"

"That's what I said when I saw her...the damned girl I named Cordelia after a play I read from Shakespeare when I was in school. Funny thing was we were supposed to read the one about a mouse but I got so wrapped up in the one about the King I read the whole thing."

"Cordelia and Victoria..."

"Listen we got to hide them. We don't want anybody getting too involved. They don't need that and this is no trouble for us. This is what we are here for..."

"I know what you're saying..."

"Damned dark city..."

Enough we mutably agreed with action as the contract for reaction followed the plain clothed worriers to a waiting room blocked off with construction signs; as they stepped inside wearing hardhats as an excuse our hearts explode while the elevator shaft cranks a deep boom hanging off a short circuit. This sound neither startled or enticed curiousness for anybody in the building; in an attempt to thwart suspicion the civilian professionals calmly journey to the other side.

"Miko she looks just like you..."

Tears stream out of my body with a dreamy anguish I determined as the interval to an unknown realm we must enter to keep these.

"Neko...she is you."

Seeing his face is the acknowledgment of our pain as a continuous admiration nothing can admonish even if the kingdom falls into pieces.

Victoria's hair is a rich element of mushroom bark fallen into strings woven for the cloth of memory; I lift her head onto my left shoulder with the bend of her knees onto my right forearm, she is the child of a dragon fuming the essence of olive oil.

"My heart cannot hold this...I will burst. She's beautiful...she's just like you; I don't think I could of asked for more."

As I speak these words the same come from his mouth with slight inversion...

The heart is more...

Think is to burst...

Beautiful is you...

"You are the sun I can behold the warmth of philanthropy."

"You are the wisdom I a child find solidarity."

We cradle each other's reflection as we cradle each other's presence.

"You two must be theirs..."

A giggle overcomes the both of us as a man obviously dressed as woman with burgundy tweed overcoat, oversize fuzzy white mock turtleneck, knee high white stretched to the skin stockings, beige dangle tassel loafer sneakers, topped off with a grey round rim derby hat adorning daisies shading a thick brush of stubbly chin brightens the dungeon with cupidity's wit.

"They are ours as well..."

Well is they...

"You need to get out of here quickly! I was about to smuggle them inside a cab I got waiting down the block..."

"Let's be smuggled..."

"Yes we will be more than obliged to accompany your femininity in a taxi."

Running while desperately holding onto a pair of boastful bra less bosoms, a honeydew melon rolls across the sidewalk; a man on a ten speed with a backpack picks up the gracious fruit as we close the door for three ladies with the destination of Panther Hood.

An alternate route for Quasimoto and his mad wrecker draws the artistry of now.