On my last night, I rode public transportation as far as I could down the river, away from the mountains, toward the sun.
I sat on the rocks lining the silver river edge and rolled up my jeans so they wouldn’t get wet.
On the other side, the windows blinked out, one by one, not like lights dimming, but suddenly, irreversibly, like bubble wrap popping.
Above me, the sky surged from pink to blood orange, drenching the river, then fading to dull gray. The streetlights flickered on.
The fly fishermen started to come out then. Their khakis, their vests. I don’t think they caught anything. I don’t think I saw any fish, either.
Cigarette smoke from passersby mingled with the river’s sharp, salty sweat.
In the distance, I heard someone’s Eurotechnopopsexsong blaring.
So I watched, til the fly fisherman’s cigarette smoke melted with the sky, til the sky melted into his invisible silhouette.
Mosquitoes replaced the gnats.
I trotted back up the riverbank.
Back to the tram.
Back up the hill.
Back home, for now.