Ratfink left ______ like That. And That wasn’t a very small or simple thing. And THAT wasn’t a very silent and thoughtful thing. That was a creature who slammed inside itself once and maybe twice before slamming down the halls and through the ears of everyone everywhere. That moved like thunder-- heard and felt through the core but never seen. And when someone leaves or speaks or does anything like That did, it means it was never built up but happened like most truths do: no matter whenever or wherever or however. And always to whomever. To whomevers like Ratfink.
Ratfink came home on a day with no particular name. A day with no particular smell or color or pattern. Just a day. Came home to realize that home was not the place he slept or ate or moved about in. Not the place he stored his belongings. Home was her. And that day, she was gone. Maybe she didn’t leave like That did. She always moved like a drop of rain. But no one was there to see her leave. The kitchen light was on but couldn’t stop the quiet. The silence was dead, propped open eyelids, motionless on the floor. And Ratfink didn’t wait. He didn’t set down his coat and flip through his mind to where she might be. On a particular day Ratfink might have taken a step back or leaned against the doorway gazing into his now gone life. But it wasn’t a particular day, so Ratfink left like That.
And found himself in The Sidelines gazing at the sky. And soon at Stank’s with a pint. And soon with an apron behind the counter. And looking for scraps in the junkyard. And forgetting those he met each day. And soon the years slid by and so did he.