Scars Glinting

Scars glinting like axes carved from axes on the foreheads of the riders in the first metro fluorescent light.  I had come loose, more alone than ever.  If only I could forge this river of sobriety and make it to bed and turn off my head.

Looking at me, across from me a man of seventy but in another light much younger.  He wears a fashionable black fisherman’s hat as he reads a newspaper.  His short hair flares long at the back and sides, a modern Kosciuszko.  It takes me five seconds to see him.  And after another five I say:

“Linhart.”

He looks up expectantly, five a.m. annoyed.

“You’re Professor Linhart.”

“Yes.  Linhart is the name.  And what is your name, you with a taste for the first hours of daylight?”

“Horvath.  I was in your history class three years ago, on Celetná.”

“Right, I recall,” he says and turns back to his paper.

“Have you been out of the country? Your accent has changed.  Native speaker.”

He continues reading.  Talks like a native speaker, understands little.  Before I can take the thoughts further, I see Volk sitting a few people down from me. I jump up, “Volk, what are you doing here?”

“Prosím?”

“What are you doing here,” I laugh. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“Seš vopilej,” he said.  “You’re drunk.”

“What?  I’m tired, unglued, but…”

“Just leave us alone will ya?” the Czech girl he’s with says in perfect English.

“Pavla?”

I look around the wagon and see my entire sixth grade class, all grown up and riding to work at five a.m. like good Czechs, full of contempt for me and what I will become if I keep missing bedtime in the middle of my heart.