Hometowned.

Everything thaws. By morning, the streets are bare and the sound of water dripping from rooftops is deafening. I sleep in a room without windows and awake only at the smell of coffee, distant dreams of sex and summer settling in the corners.

All the bars are closed and he wretches in agony at the small town. We find a sports bar finally, get drunk, make lewd jokes and I ask him why he still lives here, when the world lies at his feet. I cannot leave them, he says. And when the other jewels lie scattered across the globe, I suppose I simply cannot make myself choose.

How odd, I think. To run only with purpose, and not out of fear of the calm. The bar closes, the people leave their chairs. They all look the same. I cringe.