oktoberfest

by ~englandrain

    (December 10, 2006)
It was almost 13:02:00 pm, but still 13:01:52, I remember.
I pushed a shopping cart down the aisle full of office supplies,
  and not because I worked in an office, or even wanted to,
  but because I was eavesdropping on two men's conversation
  happening one aisle to the left.

"That boy o' yers seems like 'e's hurtin'."
"That boy's got some hurtin' goin' on."
"That boy's full of hurt."



    (June 18, 2006)
"Pirates don't talk like, 'Aaargh, mateys!'" you said in a
  high-pitched, pirate-accented tone.
"He's a pipsqueak pirate."
"A pipsqueak pirate?" You raised your eyebrows.

We laid on our backs, on the grass.

"The sun—he's a chef."
"A chef?" I asked in a quiet voice.
"Yeah, a chef. He's trying to cook us at 87°."
"Maybe outerspace is just really cold and he wants to
  be warm."
"No. I think a lot of people have cold hearts because he
  steals the warmth of them because he's selfish."
"He's not selfish. He gives us light and warmth, and he
  helps plants make food."
"You know what? I'm going to make up a word, and it'll
  be as simple as 'sun,' but it'll still sound just as nice."



    (September 1, 2006)
"'September.'"
"'September?'" I repeated as a question.
"That's the word—the simple but nice-sounding word I
  was going to invent."
"But you didn't invent it, and it's not simple."
"Well then, how about 'sept,' or 'tem,' or 'ber'?"



    (September 11, 2006)
"You know what's sad?" you asked.
"What?"
"Five years—five years of sadness."
"I don't—"

You handed me a note with words written in black ink.

"And then I felt sad because I realized that once people
  are broken in certain ways, they can't ever be fixed, and
  this is something nobody ever tells you when you are
  young." —Douglas Coupland

"9/11."



    (October 3, 2006)
"You know today is the last day of the Oktoberfest in
  Germany?" you said.
"Really?"
"Yeah, and, somewhere in the world, today will also be
  the last day of someone's life, inevitably."

A chill ran down my body and covered it in gooseflesh.



   (November 17, 2006)
"Have you ever seen a bird fly into helicopter blades, and
  get sliced and diced?" you asked.
"No."
"Well, I did today. I didn't like the sight too much."



    (December 9, 2006)
"Do you like birds?" I asked.
"No."
"Why not?"
"You can't keep them without imprisoning them in
  a cage, but when you let them out of their cage, they
  fly away. There's no point to trying to keep something
  that'll, one day, fly away."
"What if I were a bird?"
"I might not want you."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll fly away."



    (December 10, 2006)
It was almost 13:02:00 pm, but still 13:01:52, I remember.
I pushed a shopping cart down the aisle full of office supplies,
  and not because I worked in an office, or even wanted to, but
  because I was eavesdropping on two men's conversation
  happening one aisle to the left.

"That boy o' yers seems like 'e's hurtin'."
"That boy's got some hurtin' goin' on."
"That boy's full of hurt."