Twin suns – a trio of sorts of which one doesn’t shine. Desert storms aren’t called what they’re called if not felt to be so, a fever’s a fever only if normal lies below. The same in the case of my Vagrant, who most certainly isn’t one as long as he calls this world his home, but I don’t think ‘they’ would care to destroy it to make him one, like I believe he still wouldn’t mind staying the way he is, with material existence to back his scoop.
“You’re one of them Rain Men.”
“More of the sun”, his guest replied. “Water’s from under the-”
“Hey, I live here too, remember?” our Vagrant scoffed. “More than you, maybe.”
“Yeah… more than me”, he responded, distantly. “You can stop here.”
“Right.”
The man got down, adjusted his clothes (which isn’t a cocktail dress is all we need to know), paid for the trip and turned to enter the place where he raked his grass.
“Hey Doc.”
“Junior Assistant in Research”, he snubbed him with a smile. “Yeah?”
“What they’re saying about our Nero…”, he began. “He’s not-”
“Afraid he is”, the JAR responded.
“What happens then?”
“Well…”, he scratched his nose. “We’ve still got his girl, she’d mother us.” He turned to the gate again. “Daddy hung around a while, I’d bless him.”
“Yeah”, he glanced at his steering wheel. “Well, you have a good day then.”
“You too”, the response came from a distance.
Cabs do retrace, the road’s not always ‘ahead’. Time could make this life helical, but space gives scope for reverse, rewind and fast-forward and so does our Vagrant’s music system. He picked a station that played something he hadn’t listened to before (familiarity triggers resonance), sipped his cola and drove to see Nero set, with Tara tall at noon, lighting this double-day they were having.
He vowed to not miss the sight ever, from then.
*‘The Vagrant Chronicles’ is an individual attempt by me, aimed to commemorate the Zeroth anniversary of a solar demise.
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