Borrowed Time - Last Fight

etching and there's nothing I can do to put an end to that. The light in the late afternoon pours in through the glass, turning the wooden tables to gold and snaring dust motes in a l

hat. I don't, but I love to imagine its story." Maybe he's a poet, a spy, or just a man who can't remember his lines in the crush of the city. I'm g

an me, louder than the hurting in my chest. I'm fine. I'm always fine. That's what I tell Lila when she worries herself into worry eyes and wine nights.

on the room with a sort of soft focus. He's not like my fedora man - too real, too alive. His jacket is frayed, his boots scraped and he could use a shave, but he moves

line of his shoulder, the way his fingers beat a rhythm on the case of his guitar. I'm gazing at it when a napkin takes off from his tray

then my cough escapes, short and stubborn, and I freeze, hoping no one heard. The man's eyes look into mine, and oh, they're softer

apkin, nerve- steadie

irst." He comes nearer, and I notice the calluses on his fingers, th

. I grabbed the napkin and shuffed it under his hand

dens at that, and now I want to crawl under the c

ting the book too slowly. My cough threatens another takeover, but I swallow it bac

t of me, as if he's got no place else to be." His guitar case is pr

and I tucked some hair behi

kling as he smiles. " Played here tonight, a

after my wool to. But the glow in the café, the smudge on my thumb from the pencil

raver than the mushy mess in my

the universe: A chair. "Depends.

f, as blue as the sky I painted just last week. There is not a lot of trembling in my hands, but I hold the pencil more ti

d," I manage, and now it's 

der tray, and walks with it to a table in the back corner of the restaurant,

 for now the cafe's warm, the music's here, and Alex's song is ready to burst forth. I don't know what will be tomorrow's lot - hospital rooms, Lila'