He draws a charcoal line, wavery in the misty rain as the doppelganger reflects a weird shadow from underneath a tree limb overhanging a grassy plot. Naturally it dissolves, washed away by a torrent of tears. But no one is near to hear you ask, "So who will come and wipe clean the memory?"
Waxen, the prone figure rests comfortably, undisturbed by the surrounding begonias and lavish carnation bouquets. Vertical rows of ideograms on long ribbons of satin argue against the logic of upright Roman text, nearly causing a Trojan War. The walk home is uneventful until the third kidney shrinks out of proportion. Only then does the luncheon resume. Luckily for the pastor, his nephew, the parking lot is empty in front of a leaking restaurant.
Afterwards, all lights, red, yellow and green lead a direct path, illuminating the ranch as if stranded in the Nevadan desert. Throughout the wood panelling sits a fuzzy zoo, thousands of miles removed from sustainable bamboo and inedible bramble. Visitors rest at the dinner table while old acquaintances examine the backs of quarters, looking to make sense of green tea leaves and pistachio shells.
Disembarking off the jet, sad faces pop hard candy into their mouths. And a week goes by quickly for the slow ride back.