Dates with the Fates
i) Clotho Her last date? Some chump called Pelops. She gave him the cold shoulder. With her men, she likes them older and she dines on them like scallops. You can see why I’d be nervous. I asked to try the Sauvignon while she fiddled with her napkin. The shit she says about Alcestis! We were doing that thing on work. Her line, she explained, was in lines. And now star upon star aligns… Behold the spinning of an arc taking us from the restaurant to the backseat of a taxi – the canoodle – you want coffee? – to the want, the want, the want – but then all of this will vanish. Was it something I said? Oh no, she texts me in bed, what I start, I never finish. ii) Lachesis Mostly she complained. Complained about being the middle sister when your parents are Darkness and Night. iii) Atropos We meet at a ’70s Berlin café – there’s Bowie and Eno and Osterberg – and I’m wondering what it is I should say, when she flicks a bang then speaks with a surge (we’re all looking her way) So typical of Generation X to persist with the ruse of having sex. The children are growing. The children are growing. But here, on the corner of Hauptstraβe, the children are dying. The children are dying. Above us, the moon is sole amasser of all that is falling in the dying fall of the urban night this side of Lou and his satellite. It could be worse. You could be a Millennial. Her lovely throat convulses with a laugh. I look up to say something trivial. Her stare shears through like an aftermath. The moon’s bright aureole shines only once on those who winnow. When it mantles her hair. That’s how I’ll know.