Not quite a facsimile of reality but in the vein of the eleventh dimension.
The girl with the argyle socks marched in step and rhyme to the sheet music of my animal totem. She rose to greet its mischievous chirps and methodical circulations. I was not prepared for her, not the sight of her, the smell of her, the sound of her laughter or the texture of her ruminations. The integrity of my trigger, the stillness of my chilled exterior, and the tried and true measurements of my scope were torn open the instant she said hello.
that for a moment mimicked the determination of a hell-no.
Clarification was not necessary; I knew what she needed. Something as basic as food and shelter, maybe some human hereafter to prevent the dying world from accelerating to a premature grave. But I was on a mission. I was on my way somewhere. I had a deadline to meet, promises to honor, and a greater good to consider. It’s been three weeks since I slipped away while she slept and the image of those argyle socks have etched themselves in my mind like an ancestral secret. A beacon in the darkest crevices…
Too late, too late now, to go back. She wouldn’t still be waiting for me. I wouldn’t be waiting for me.
if only I had memorized the atoms of her scent…for then I could find her no matter how far she walked.
Or I could locate and follow a trail of bloody footballs and bodiless arms.