he/i/she could. (CAN)

his name could be victor.

he could arrive in an old-fashioned automobile, dark green, a recycled vehicle, classy and sassy and almost too perfect. he could climb out of his car, blaring Dylan songs. “the times are a changing” he could say and laugh and begin to preach, “indeed.” in the way that echoes and tones of certain laughter can, predictions of truth and light and love, love, love.

I could walk up behind him, dressed in a pale gold dress, worn from years of industrialized washing machines. I could have on tennis shoes, and carry a bag of organic produce from the local market. i could reach into my purse seeking cigarettes and sips of cognac before reaching the park bench to make lunch.

she could be writing in her journal, notes to purchase eggplant for the elaborate dinner, the one she remembered, the one she needs to let simmer for two and one half hours. she could forget that an amalgamation of vegetables is like sex in a pan, and is the proper way to impress a gentleman.

he could step forward, the Cadillac wasting gas, seeking the time, he could ask. “is the sun setting soon? I’d love to find the local saloon..” the station attendant could smile at him,  could answer his ambiguities, “well sir around these parts, there are many good saloons. but tis only noon.”

she could look down upon the glass, see her eyes looking back, and his leather boots through the display. “I like your car” she could say. and of course, as always, she could look away.

I could pause outside the station, my produce in one hand, the burning cigarette in the other, as my chemistry now demands. I could hold my purchases close, as I notice bums lurking peripherally. I could exhale silently as the heat from the smoke and the heat from the sun envelope my straightened hair and dull dress. I could wonder if there will ever be ways to leave the town and all this mess. and I could sit and ponder this distress.

he could smile, and walk to the delinquent aisles, to the liquor he is a pedophile, after traveling hundreds and thousands of miles, he has to sit and drink in style. he could purchase a cab sav or pinot grigio, cheap beer and fresh cantelope. and he could walk slowly, quietly away.

she could roll her eyes in disbelief, and go back to brooding over meals to eat. she could remember the eggplant is hard to discover and that she also needs two sticks of butter, one for her, the other for her brother. she could remember when he could travel on his own, before the tragic moment of his revoked license. she could look at the man and see in him her brother and his influence of under poison when driving motor cars.

I could be spreading the herbed olive oil, placing the gouda, and slicing the avocado onto fresh bread from the local bakery. I could ask, for the 607^th time, whether avocado was a vegetable or fruit or if the point was moot. I could hope she had rice pudding to consume, for desert. I could believe food was the labor of good youth.

he could meander back to her, several consumables and a pen. he could proclaim, “mam, these are the best pens in all of the world. I use them to write my stories when I am tired of scenery.” he could rummage his pockets for cash, and laugh ever so awkwardly at the irony of buying his favorite writing utensils from a woman who happened to be using one.

She could never know how to respond, “sir, it will be 37 dollars, even, so strange.” She could watch him reach for his money in his pockets, see a lighter, and a condom fall onto her rug. She could blush but she would silently sigh at having to work so hard for another tourist. she could never understand why they asked so many questions and gave twice as many irrelevant comments, it was so obnoxious.

I could pull out my diary and begin to re-read the last six months since I took a few notes. I could begin to wonder the thoughts of her, or him, or anyone. I could wonder why it was always out with din and sin and secrets that only speak to the page, it is a stage, to act out truth.

they could be diving south, driving south, headed away from northern routes. they could arrive in a small town in Tennessee or Kentucky, downing the best whiskey. they could dance for hours under stars, avoiding the disaster that journeys must begin and end ever after.