She Is Cigarette

1

We are holding hands because one of us asked the other for encouragement. It doesn’t matter who asked who—does it? The point is that we are inseparable, for now. The point is the peril, which is all around us, and the request for a hand, which was—thank God—within reach.

Across the river, they are still shooting. We can hear them, but we are strolling anyway. The people we pass dismiss us as young. They are right. We are young, so we are able to share this nightmare, she and I, whereas everyone else must suffer it alone, because everyone else is old.

She points to a dead man or woman, or horse that is half-buried in the snow. It is a lot of snow, even for a January. We cross Városliget. Did you know that Városliget was the first public park in the world? This fact may or may not be true.

Half-dead people are digging in the snow for food, and dismissing us as dreamers.  She and I are not digging in the snow because there is nothing in the snow to dig for except half-buried people digging themselves deeper. So I ask you: who here is dreaming, and who is awake?

I am hungry. She and I are as hungry as anybody else. And thirsty. She tells me that her parents are alive. She already knows how my family came out of this. I lick my lips. She pretends she doesn’t see, which I know is hard for her. I hear her stomach grumble. Selflessly, I pretend I don’t hear, which is hard for me. Everybody is born with an acute this or an acute that, which is hard to suppress, no matter what—love, war.

I bend down, stab...