Published in Everyone's a fucking poet! 1995
"Could we walk to the end of the road," she asked, "until there's a fork, and two paths diverging? I will go left, and you will go right, and if what they say is true, we'll meet again, eventually, somewhere, if not back at that very same spot." We aren't walking anywhere, I thought, or, if we are, it's only in very tight circles, and centrifugal force will only throw us far away as soon as we let go of each other's hands. I couldn't bear the thought. "Couldn't we," I stammered, "just keep going for a while, to see how things work out. The fork in the road, you know, is where the map ends." But the sweat on my palms was already taking its effect. Our fingers were slowly sliding across one another; I felt myself being drawn to the periphery of my world. The hours she'd spent sketching meaningless diagrams and computations on the back of shopping lists finally made sense. She knew what the future would hold, had calculated the trajectory of our lonely arcs, whose endpoints were death, the starting points of new lines. She, the geometer, me, I could ride a bicycle but couldn't describe the infinitely complex relations of movement that made it all possible. We were destined to go. I pedalled so fast I couldn't keep up and the wheels kept spinning and the pedals went around faster and faster and my legs were silly victims of a process I didn't understand.
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