Too many days in turned into too many days out. The distractions of the last year led to places–not like the proverbial fork in the road places– rather, these were alleyways and seedy back street destinations. The dark, dank Mariscal Street in Juarez– where we’d go have sandwiches filled with mystery meat after too many Cuba Libres at Sarawalk or the Copa or the Sub–After too many rejections from nameless, faceless G.I. Joes–out in their brand new clothes and white Nikes–only to be swept away by friendly, shouty Marines. Stumbling on from one club to the next. The drinks changed with each new partner–and we danced away with blue-eyed stangers–letting them steal first kiss, last kiss–ending up blurry-eyed, alone and disappointed with limp lettuce and ripe tomato sandwich at Fred’s– being startled by own reflection in the window. Ghost face. Ghastly. Mascara streaked, sleepy. The buzz of fluorescent light illuminated the failure of the evening–
And the realisation that I just wanted to be home.