Cracked Goth

Amar En Meleth

 

The guy dressed in black, black eyeliner, black nail polish, black moon tattooed on his cheek.

"Metrics," he said.

I didn't understand what metrics had to do with the tattoo.

"Measures of quantitative assessment," he said.

I had questions.

The fireplace in the gazebo illuminated the cracked pavement.

"Beautiful," he said.

For a moment, I thought he meant me. I looked frantically in all directions, assessing my quantitative measures of evasion.

He meant the moon.

This wasn't going well, I had to admit.

Did he even notice I was there? Cracked pavement... Beautiful... More like a cracked brain, in black.

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