Andrew Shields

1 Our last night in the house was not our last. With two cats in the yard. Our movers took the furniture in the morning.A country where they turned back time.

The chickens are back in their coop. The kids are out on the town. It's here in one fell swoop. It's sundown. You've heard them say it before. The rumour's been going around. You're heading straight for the door. It's sundown. You've forgotten what you said. All that matters is here and now No one's getting you to bed, even though it's sundown. The trucks roll by on the highway. You want to follow that sound. You want to have your say at sundown. The dusk turns into dark. You walk away with a frown. You're the only one in the park past sundown. Here's where the children played, but they're not here right now. You don't want to end your day, even though it's sundown.

He stood up suddenly and threw himself and his grey canvas sack to the bus's floor, then, clutching the sack's edges, he struck the floor with it again, four or five times, then stopped. No one moved, everyone had moved for a moment, away from him as he had struck the floor. He sat looking at the contents of the bag, now strewn all over. Cassetts, broken cassette cases, assorted papers, and pieces of his old cassette recorder. He sat quite still for a moment. Whatever had been happening wasn't happening anymore. Nothing continued to happen, then something began to happen again. He began to pick up his things, put them into the sack. No one moved. They all looked at him, or they all tried not to look at him. He put his things into the sack with steadily increasing speed.

The barstool's capacious, then ever more enclosed, with every beer, as evening erodes. A few capricious tourists off the cozy track propose unbeaten toasts. He'll soon be going back. Mannequin musicians play mandolins or thumb pianos, bleat out a reggae air on ragged banjos. The booths patter with the local lingo. Smattered English polishes the windows. An amble to the john, the mirror's random crack. The urinal's askew. He'll soon be going back. The minimal solicitudes of seven-minute flirts: blurted-out soliloquies, well-trained parting words. Insert pejorative for natives here, before a sputtered call for one more beer. Dusty carnations; carnival bric-a-brac— long-faded revaltions. He'll soon be going back.