Rain interlaced under the street lamp.

The queue is shorter than usual. Although the room still appears hectic. Air-brushed smiles and sharp eye brows. Their names were always Hanks and Tony but never Chris. I bought our tickets. Though we didn’t want sweet or savoury. A familiar well worn carpet, trodden in thoughts. Posters with water dropped cans. We separated, I took the first left, she went straight. Nothing is worth doing on a full bladder. No doors for hygiene and the sink looked unused. Lit by a neon fly trap. Cold radiation. They flew too close.

The soap dispenser was half used. Grit between the tiles. A trail of blood leads to a shape hunched on the floor, a small knife in his palm. He’s not from America. No mop in sight.

Her smile greeted me outside. Her hand found mine. New scent of peach, same complexion. The corridor connected too many places. A muddled man in front tried to find his way. Jimmy Stewart would never walk into a room like that.

Between the darkness, most seats were full. A room of light known only by it’s absence. Still, a horde of moths can’t take their eyes away. Shades of colour shimmered across the room. No one knew what to say, nobody told them.

Once you seemed innovative to me. Cracks widened on a shattered mirror. Now I can no longer tell. We are just the in betweens.

I looked around, no one was there. A residue of moments, that went into other moments. Perhaps they had the same idea. Time to move on.

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