We almost died that night. She ate the
dying fetus of a donut, as I huffed the
whipped cream of my espresso. The hurling
ball of fire in the air was not the sun. Indeed
it was the first coming of Nix, and none other
than his messenger Thanatos, death. A body fell
from the roof above us into the fray of a blue mustang.
The screech of metal on glass was deafening to our mellow
milieu. We were thrown out of a world, much like children
witnessing their parents masturbating each other or the first time
you feel the cold rape of a dirty syringe entering your blood vessel.
My glasses fogged up with apprehension, the glasses themselves felt the
fear that emanated from the words that escaped my breath. She cried out
one word, a word of which the time of conversation would of allowed as
appropriate but now fell isolated and prejudiced by other words and breaths alike,