Sitting in the bathtub with the drummer on a late Saturday morning. Chicago on the radio, my Japanese flag curtains covering the windows to the downtown world below. Toes playing fingers, washing off remnants of love. Suddenly sirens and eyes searching eyes. Picking through bubbles for last spoken words. Then silence except for the drummer and the drummer picks up his beat.
It was only the noon whistle, he says. But the moment of the end was beginning.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology