Virus

Two cold donuts. Coffee's wayward steam. 

A rust coloured cap sits atop uncut hair. A thick grey overcoat is pulled up high along its collar.

With bare fingers the man sips his coffee. He takes a small bite from a glazed donut.

It is just past evening.

A first frost covers fallen gold and red leaves. They shimmer under the street lights. Streaks of snow land on the man’s eyes, and melt in his coffee. He belongs on the wood bench. As forgotten as an empty park.

He once knew his name. But now he doesn’t remember much. Except for a trip to Atlantic City.

A virus came and stole half of his memory. Just as it robbed others.

He sensed what his life once was. He knew he had an apartment not so long ago. A job. Friends. A young girl who he would marry—start their lives together.

But the virus swept through the country. It crippled the minds of the young.

So many left to wander.

They lived in a numbed insanity.

They could not remember names.

They could only remember the outlines of events.

Like his trip to Atlantic City.

He and his buddies tossed dice at Taj Mahal. They won so much. More than all they’d ever been paid. That night they decided to get laid.

They woke up groggy eyed. The silent girls had grifted more stole' money than they’d ever seen.

The black cops laughed: “You white boys so dumb. Those girls were too hot for you. You should of known you being played. You’ll never forget Atlantic City.”

The man couldn’t remember, but he sensed his winnings. He sensed what he lost.

He drank the last of the coffee. Bit the last of the donut. The snow fell about his feet. He closed his eyes and tried to remember his fiancee’s name.

But he couldn’t. Just the dice in Atlantic City.