The Return. by Plot Tracer
I imagined returning here for many years. In my imagination, the place would be as alive as it had been when we used it. The door where we, the factory mafia, used to smoke. Used to watch the imaginary cricket. The place where we used to hide from the bosses. Where I met you.
You walk ahead of me. We approach the building, now alive with ivy and dripping slates. I imagine the mafia standing, some engrossed in conversation about the previous nights football. Some talking about the latest terrorist atrocity; you and I gazing into each other’s eyes, the world disappearing from about us.
You don’t stop to look at our meeting place, our old courting place. You push ahead… towards the forest. I can’t keep up. The mafia dissolve. I know quite a few have passed, their time gone. The important work they did here done.
You don’t turn. You push on and disappear into the winter trees. I can’t run. The ground is uneven; the old tarmac is pitted and brambled. My legs are not those of my mafiosa self. The building is decrepit and I am too.
I see you standing with them. Shadows waving. Letting me know the football conversations go on. I just want to gaze into your eyes again.
But you are gone.
The word today was Mafia. This is what I wrote in the alloted 15 minutes:
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