Purgatory

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Seven pm – it's a dark wet winter night in North Bend.

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Three of us, Christophe, Roy and myself sit at the end of the bar

in an empty, dimly lit restaurant doing crossword puzzles.

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Christophe does The World puzzle, entering clues spelled

phonetically relying on his thick French accent. He has

limited success.

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Roy does the New York Times puzzle. An old navy man, he

washes store front windows for some extra cash. He doesn't

have any problems with the puzzle.

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I do what ever is left over. I don't make too much of an effort,

paying more attention to Christophe's homemade sangria.

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No one walks the streets, no cars drive by. We sit in silence,

scratching our answers on newsprint.

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No one walks into the restaurant, no one calls for reservations.

We sit and wait, each killing time, time killing us.

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It occurs to me that maybe we are already dead and this is

purgatory, waiting for our final fate.

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Christophe and Roy have since met their's. I still await mine.