The Palace Crumbles

Eat

Trenton Transit Center, Trenton, NJ
$1,200.00
"What's your name?"
"Joseph Curran. My name is Joseph Curran." I take one last look at myself in the sunshield's mirror, adjusting my glasses. "Seventeenth of August, 1970. And yours?"
"My name is Gabriel Holloway. December twelfth, 1979." You run a hand through your buzz cut. You've parked the police car in the lot of an abandoned garbage dump, the smell already seeping in through the cracks in the doors. We plan to walk a mile to the train station, buy the soonest tickets we can get, and take off. We're headed for Vermont, then Montréal. We have false passports in the names we've just described, IDs, and medical face masks to cover ourselves. We'll probably have to take them off at customs, but it's better than having the entire public witness our faces.
We walk fast, hands in our jacket pockets. Breathing with the mask makes my glasses fog up, creating a gross humidity that lingers on my upper lip. "Here's something small," I say to distract myself. "Tell me what really happened to your face. Because I don't think you scraped it in a police chase."
"That is the exact opposite of small." You sigh. "I'll tell you the whole story later, but...we both got into this fight with a violent criminal. He cut my face with a knife. Just like he shot you."
I'm reminded of my wound. My body is being surprisingly resilient- I haven't taken much notice to any pain. I walk a little heavier on my right side, though, and I'm hoping it's not glaringly obvious. We'll have to keep changing the bandages once it's safe.
"So are people going to know to look for a big scar on your face?"
"No. The guy is dead. No one knows that he cut me, because no one is around who witnessed it."
"I see." I ponder this. "Is he dead because of the police, or because we killed him?"
You blink hard, lost in a memory. "We killed him," you say softly, almost with nostalgia.
"Was it nice?" I'm not sure where the question comes from.
You look at me in surprise. "..Yes," you reply. "It was beautiful."
I long to feel the way you do, in this moment. To gaze in awe at a memory, to share it with you. I want it more than anything in the world. It's as though my mind does not remember you, but my heart does. We are connected by a string between our chests, heart to heart, soul to soul.
The grief rolls over me. I want to remember. I want to remember.
"You okay?"
I blink, and a tear rolls down my face. "I hope that I can cherish that beauty with you soon. I really, really hope so."
"Me too." You smile sympathetically, looking around for anyone watching us before taking my hand. "I'll tell you the whole story later."
We spend the rest of the walk in comfortable silence, but when we reach the transit center we are thrust into a bustling plaza. People are everywhere, and I immediately feel my chest tighten. I look over at you, and I can tell that you're feeling the same way.
"It's easier to get lost in the crowd," you say. "Everyone will just look past us. It's okay." You're trying to reassure both of us.
You grip onto the end of my sleeve as we walk towards the ticket counter. We wait in line with our heads bowed, waiting for what feels like hours but, according to the massive clock, is only about fifteen minutes. When our turn is coming up next, I feel my stomach flip.
The man behind the stall is harried and exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. He simply processes our request without asking for any ID. "I don't got nothin' for Maine until two days from now," he says gruffly. "All booked."
This doesn't faze you. "What about Canada? Montréal?"
"Got a Quebec City leaving in three hours. That's it."
"We'll take that." You reach for the envelope of cash that you have tucked away in your backpack, and you hand over the $435 that he wants for the tickets. He takes it, nods, and sends us off.
We both sigh in relief as we walk away, relishing the fact that this was much easier than expected. You smile.
"Shit happens. But hey, now we've erased a step. Who needs Maine?"
"Not us."
"Okay." We look up at the massive board that displays the train schedules. "Two hours, forty-nine minutes until the train to Quebec boards."
"That's a long time," I remark without thinking, taking in all of the people around me. Conversations all blend into one wall of noise, and metallic screeching collides with the rattling of wet coughs. It's light, air, and color, and none of it is pleasant.
You glance over at me. "You wanna get out of here?"