Millennium Park. — I said it flat. I didn't have energy for more. Got
Hey, wake up, Partridge. — He nudged the driver.
Y-yeah, Dizzy? We leaving? — The man blinked himself awake, visibly
That's the Hey, where's Lucas?
Still at the concert. Poor guy needed the rest, boss.
He'll tell us what the terrorists wanted later. Convenient. Dizzy logic: flawless and unstoppable.
The road again. Then more road. Followed by more… road.
We rolled past Lincoln Road. I zoned out. To really wake up, I'd need a rockstar's breakfast — a certain powdered pick-me-up I never used. Neither did Dizzy, apparently. He sat with M.K. perched on his lap like a loyal roommate. The dog clearly adored him.
They watched some cheesy medical procedural on his phone. Something with dramatic CPR and perfectly symmetrical nurses.
And I? I just sat there in the quiet hum of the moment, carrying an apple cup and a dead alpaca's sadness in my heart.
My elderly companion wasn't in any hurry to return to her usual grumpy state of mind. She kept drifting inside her little closed-off bubble of missed chances and endless suffering. As far as I could remember, this was her longest trip so far today—and probably evening was to blame. Things tend to go downhill for a lot of people as the day wraps up.
Millennium Park. Another name on my growing list of destinations. But why? Do I seriously believe that things which once meant something sweet to me and Erich could somehow bring him back to normal life? Could smells help? Could anything help?
Pull yourself together, Nibi. You can't keep tormenting yourself with all this dark junk.
It wasn't working. Not even a little. I still couldn't get the image of crying Toshi out of my head. And right after it came another one: Erich, laughing like crazy while running down the street with an alpaca. We were teenagers. That one stung even more.
Vape? — Dizzy Justa offered without looking at I accepted it with a nod of thanks, even though I didn't smoke. I just needed something, anything, to distract me.
I exhaled a couple puffs of flavored smoke, coughed, and felt a little nauseous. Oddly, the urge not to puke or pass out helped. Grounded me, somehow. By the time I realized it, we were already pulling up to the rustling trees of the evening park. Showtime.
This time, everyone but the driver got out of the car. We all needed to stretch our legs. Louise, now more or less back on Earth, blew her nose loudly into a handkerchief and grumbled:
What the hell are we doing here?
Dizzy, cheerful as ever, pulled a folding chair out of the trunk like it was a holy relic. Of course. What's a walk without a throne?
Unsurprisingly, the park was basically deserted. The whole city was still frozen with fear after the terrorist attack. I didn't mind the emptiness (the lack of people, not the terrorism), because I wanted to breathe and find a little peace. The joint effects of bad vaping and too much booze still had me woozy.
Our doggo bolted up and down the paths, barking like it was Christmas, happy to finally move. Louise zeroed in on me with that -mom interrogator- face.
Well? You gonna tell us what we're doing here?
Don't bug She's thinking. — Dizzy waved her off. — You could help me with something, though. What now? — sighed the woman, always eager to -help- and simultaneously ready to murder anyone too needy.
How do I become a blacksmith? I'm done I want to swing a hammer now.
She let out a spectacular stream of profanities, cursing everything from chart-topping fools to modern art critics, and laid it out plain and savage:
Finish your contract obligations with your label, then write some sugary-ass messages to your fans saying you're tired of You've got cash, so move to a small town, open your forge, and start hammering. What's the big deal?
Your problems are a joke compared to kids mining ore with bare hands in third-world hellholes. They'd love to hear you whine about being -burned out- after playing Coachella and biennales. Hell, maybe trade places! You go dig coal, and the kid gets to bounce around stage and eat something other than boiled weeds for dinner.
Thank you, oh Wise — I said with mock reverence, stepping in as the singer's unofficial press agent.
Dizzy had clearly zoned out halfway through and probably didn't catch a word of her rant. And there it was: disappointment number two of the evening.
The green maze was gone.
Replaced by yet another dull pavilion. The spot that used to mean something to Erich and me? Wiped clean. Not a trace of what once was.
The emotion overflowed. No lid in sight to keep the pot from boiling over.
I clutched my head and forced myself to look at things from my beloved's eyes, just for a second. He'd probably joke that Dmitry and Milana had climbed the corporate ladder and now ran the park.
In their office, their old work uniforms—those silver flower-covered suits—would hang like medals. Walk in, and you could probably tear off a couple fake blooms as souvenirs.
And then, more stabbing in the heart. I loved that silly, magical world Erich always spun in his head. But I knew better. Reality was probably way less poetic.
Odds are, they broke up, moved to separate cities, got stuck in dead-end office jobs. And only on cold January nights, while sipping microwaved cider, they let themselves remember their crazy little past.
Sigh.
Don't stress. It's not gonna bring him — Dizzy's voice landed right next to my ear outta nowhere. It was just the two of us now, while Louise chased after M.K., who had snatched her wallet mid-rant and made a run for it.
Your Erich, right? What's his deal?
He's in a — First time I ever said it out loud. I'd been dodging that phrase like it had teeth. Thought maybe if I didn't say it, it wouldn't feel as real. Spoiler: it still did. And you're hoping to yank him outta there, huh? I get it. — The singer nodded, eyes a little too thoughtful. — Objects with Hoping they'll trigger something. Like a spark. I never wake up like that. Only thing that gets me up is... responsibility. I'm too lazy otherwise. But if someone's standing next to me, waiting on me, poking me? Then I drag myself up. Gotta. Responsibility's a scary beast. But people in comas? No responsibility. They're gods in their own sleepy little kingdoms.
Lightning didn't strike me. No train slammed through my ribcage. No UFO crash-landed in the bushes.
But I bolted.