Opening the door to the bungalow, a packed suitcase greets you. He emerges from the bedroom with another suitcase and a duffle bag. You're crying about the encounter with Robbie and just want to talk.

He says, "I'm leaving you" -- stoically. Unmoving. You stand here, shaking. The blood drains from your head to your feet, leaving you feeling faint.

Why me?
        Why now?
                Why this?
                                                                                                                What did I do?
                                                                                                  What did I not do?
                                                                                       What is happening?

These questions point to no answers as he walks out the door, leaving you behind.

*40 minutes later*

You are sitting on the couch leafing through your journal. Throughout the years, you've collected quotes-- a lot from your time in graduate school back in Wisconsin. You come across Barthes's "Work to Text" excerpt. You scribbled something about texts, how they are experienced, evolving, indeterminate. You think about your current situation. It's just another chunk of text, another chapter in your life-- your work. A work is fixed. You equate this to life...things happen as they are supposed to, right?

*20 minutes later*

Disbelief has taken over. You go for a walk to clear your mind, to let it all go. A man on the street asks directions to the airport {IN ENGLISH} and you point him in the right direction, desperately wishing to follow his lead.

Robbie...?...! It can't be. Someone from home, a familiar place.

You follow the cap through the crowded streets. Pushing past locals, they --->GLARE<--- at you, screaming harshly. They don't understand that you don't understand what they want you to understand. Understood?

He stops at the smoke shop. Typical Robbie. There's no doubt. This is the guy who took you to Shamrock Bar back in Wisconsin.


Image from http://www.thedailypage.com/daily/article.php?article=40489


ASIDE: The first time you truly got trashed-- puking green for what seemed liked days. Nonetheless, the best St. Patrick's Day ever. Reminds you of the novel you read in college lit...what's it called?  - - - - Resurrection Man, that's it. Shamrock Bar...the place where all that shit went down.

Today's Resurrection Man: Robbie O'Brady. Back from the dead...and in all places...

You walk in after him. He's buying some incense and turns to leave. You leap out from behind a shelf, startling him. The brown eyes pierce you. The brows furrow, searching your face for clues. He watches eyes well with tears, a lip quiver. :'( He asks, "Is everything alright?" You respond, "I just wanted you to be Robbie," and continue staring, unable to move. He apologizes (I'm sorry), leaving you alone. The man behind the counter shrugs; no solace. He doesn't understand.