At the end of imagination

At the end of imagination I drop down at a wooden table in a golden bar in a misty city from a hundred years ago. Bottle of red please. In case anyone wants to join. At the end of imagination I am alone, in need of red––but sometimes hopeful. Or at least hopeful enough to wait for company.

Beyond my wooden table I can hear the voices of those who are trying to comfort me. It is like they are talking from inside a fish bowl. gobble, gobble, gobble. bubble, bubble, bubble. Goldfish have a bad memory, I think these people do too.

At the end of imagination I start talking to myself. A woman with short brown hair sits down across from me at my wooden table. She too has a bottle of red. She speaks in an accent that I sometimes practice in the mirror, when I pretend that I am twirling and being fairy-like at a country dance in Alabama.

Isn’t it a godawful place? this gem of a planet. I’ve seen so much of it, and then some. The bridges with the yellow streetlights. And the sea! Have you seen the sea? Those great stretches of land, and the way they turn purple once a year. Always when I’m there! Almost like they’re blushing––a little nervous to see me. And I’ve seen all the people too, no one left to meet. Only really cared for one of them though, and he wasn’t even the best dancer! Quite terrible in fact. I’m Zelda by the way, but I’m sure we’ve met before.