The world is ending and people are taking pictures.

I wait.

My legs stick to the mystery fabric of the booth seat, the cracks revealing foam and creating webs or tendrils of something like patience but leaning more towards something like predator and prey but which am I? Eyes squeezed tight like the American/Mexican border, I remember throwing a coin in the fountain and making a wish and when I opened them again I watched a kid wade in and pee on everyone's hopes and dreams. His father gave him a high-five.

But you are not coming because when I helped you to break out of that white, white room, you had tubes in your arms and the drugs were playing anatomical Nascar in your veins and we shared a Popsicle and you called the vendor an idiot for selling the blue bubble-gum flavour because everyone knows that true bubble-gum is 1950's pink.

You tried to blow bubbles with the Popsicle, blue rivers running down your chin like you had short-circuited and you said - or gurgled - well damn if it were pink it would have worked. We didn't get far before we fell on the sidewalk laughing and choking and you passed out in front of Five Spot and I dragged you to the car.

I'm in the booth near the restroom, listening to people writing on the walls and mirror with Sharpies, lipstick, pizza sauce, blood, anything they can find to leave their mark though there are no places left and even sitting on the toilet means you are smothering someone's story.

I look down at my slice of pizza, the olives are your black-circled, sunken eyes and the enormous sundried tomatoes are your lips after we kissed.

It looks just like the face you made when you told me you were allergic to Blue No. 2.