I’m walking down the Schwarzgrabenweg with a girl. It’s been snowing and it’s that winter gray twilight where the ground falls into the sky and we see the blackest branch covered in melted and re-frozen snow. It’s cold and there’s not much to do. There’s a bench up ahead though, in one of those places in the world where you can be at the edge of everything, right where this bench is. It was behind the trees.  I think we were the only people who knew about it, though it’s probably been found by newer lovers.

I’m lighting her cigarette, but I know she only smokes because I do. I smoke because I have to. What was I thinking about? She thanks me and her breath mixes with the smoke. They’re different colors, didn’t you know? Lighter’s on my eager cigarette and we’re sitting down now. There are only two sets of footprints in the whole world. Just beyond these fields there’s an airport named after Mozart. There’s a Backerei and a couple of farms.

We never saw any black graves along the Schwarzgrabenweg, but that doesn’t mean nothing was buried there.

This entry was published on November 21, 2012 at 00:43 and is filed under Prose. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

One thought on “Schwarzgrabenweg

  1. I like this. It’s concise. You’re not wasting words. Ernest would approve – and push you to make sure it’s honest and spare.

    Sent from my iPhone

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