like burning and flight and running away

         
       And that's what scares me the most, he said. 
       What?
       That it's possible, that your life could remain a blank canvas. Nothing could happen. It's scary.

       We were sitting in a sleepy cafe, and it was a muggy day. He tapped his cigarette into an ashtray in the shape of a smiling animal, I couldn't tell exactly what kind of animal it was; mildly porcine, a confused little pig probably, imperfectly crafted somewhere far away. I thought of porcelain moulded harshly by flame. I thought of glass shattering. I thought of all these precarious things. I knew what would happen in a few minutes; the watch on my wrist was too tight. My skin felt clammy, and my heart was in that looming kind of place.   
        
      We weren't that young and we weren't in love. This was toward the end of the affair. None of us were married, but it was an affair nonetheless. There was always something illicit about it, there was always a horror fleeing the corner. He was four years older than me, and the clouds outside were about to let down into rain. None of my thoughts seemed coherent, or even significant. I felt like I was transparent, or dissipating. I sat on my hands, because they were shaking; I felt thoroughly vague. 

     Are you even listening to me, 
     No, I said.