She has to walk home in the drizzle:
the cab never came. It’s her birthday.
A row of parked cars on Alkalaï,
no traffic and even the windows look dull.
Caught in a random selection,
she is thrown against a rock wall.
A knife to her belly, his hazel eyes hating her (gray),
he hisses «death» through his teeth.
An absurd list runs through her mind:
«Tonight’s party, six p.m., cheese cake, my hair a mess.»
Unable to fear or to breathe, but she breathes – carefully
retracting a gram of skin from the tip of his blade.
The moments splinter and she is just
a frantic number
flying into the fibrous rain. Dali’s watch.
Later, somehow adjusted, she is back
staring through gray dilated scars
at the town’s quiet streets, not only when it rains.