Your eyes will glisten with tears as you strum your guitar
and look at the passengers. One of them
will vaguely resemble Amy, the girl you left behind so long ago.
“Oh,” you’ll murmur to yourself. “Amy.”
The girl will move to the front of the tram, next to the
driver, the farthest possible point from you.
You’ll want to get up and follow her, but the fortified wine you had
before coming will be well set into your legs by now and so you’ll sit there
quietly, striking notes aimlessly on your guitar, staring at the young woman
with a singular sort of wistfulness reserved for those who have lost everything
in their lives.
The gaze will be all you have: that, your guitar and your
seat on the tram. When the tram stops
suddenly, it won’t break your gaze. When
the woman gets off, however, it will.
When the cops get on it’ll be as if they’re entering a dream, intruding
upon a private moment you constructed for yourself on that tram, staring
straight ahead, wishing you were somewhere, anywhere else. When they reach the back of the tram the
other passengers will have moved away, leaving a clear path for you to take out
the rear door. You’ll understand the
intention of the officers, but their words won’t be able to pierce the veil of
liquor and dream you’ve woven around yourself.
“Ughhh,” you’ll moan at them. They’ll lift you by your armpits and throw
you out of the tram on to your belly, leaving you in the street, puzzled. Then they’ll calmly walk out and hand you
your guitar.
They’ll say something to you, something that might be nice,
but you won’t hear them. Instead you’ll
just lift yourself up, leaning on your guitar for balance, and begin tramping
off into the early afternoon, wondering how you’ll keep this buzz going, how
you might be able to make it run a little deeper so that you can keep the
thought of Amy out of your head a little longer.
Congratulations Tram Tramp!
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