Liberaij

Monday had the plan. Thursday the guns. Wednesday stayed in the car. Tuesday and Sunday went in with Friday at 9:15 AM. Two tellers. One guard. The floor was cold. So was the vault. Thursday pressed on the guard as the manager dialed the door. Friday went in with the bags. Tuesday stayed at the door. Sunday came from behind. He put his hand on the back of Tuesday’s neck. Tuesday’s eyes stayed on Friday’s back. He didn’t move. But Sunday’s hand did. Underneath. Friday called out and they stepped apart. Wednesday drove to a gas station three blocks from the bridge. Friday filled the tank. Sunday went inside. He came back with a chocolate bar. Broke it in half. Held out a half to Tuesday without locking eyes. On the corner, as they pulled away, a man. Overcoat. Hands at his sides. Tuesday saw him. They locked eyes. The ferry left at noon. They went to the dining car. Tuesday opened the menu. He ordered without checking the price. Sunday watched him from across the table. He smiled. At the far end of the car, a man. Overcoat. Hands at his sides. Sunday saw him. They locked eyes. One room. Kitchen. Two bunks. Tuesday looked at the room. Sunday put the bags under a bunk. Next morning, he hit a bazaar. A Spica radio. Two glasses. A pan. He put the glasses on the shelf. Looked at them. Tuesday watched him watch. Tuesday cooked badly. Sunday ate. In the evening, the Spica played. Tuesday on the bunk, one arm hanging off, another behind his head. Sunday at the table, his back straight. He crossed the room. Crouched beside the bunk. Took Tuesday’s hanging hand in both of his. Pressed his mouth to the inside of the wrist. Tuesday’s fingers curled around his. He got closer. His mouth on Tuesday’s throat, the hollow of it, the collarbone. Tuesday’s hands in his hair, on his shoulders, wherever they landed. Tuesday’s skin was warm. He moaned. Sunday covered his mouth. The glasses caught the light on the shelf. Tuesday felt the silence first. Below. Uniforms. Vehicles. A man. Overcoat. Sunday was already sitting up. Grey light. The man grabbed the megaphone and spoke. Sunday crossed the room and stood next to Tuesday. He took him by the hand and led him to the bags. Tuesday picked up a bundle and set it on fire. Sunday fed a second one. A third one. Tuesday got up without speaking and crossed the room. He came back with the glasses and a bottle of booze. They sat on the ground drinking. The smoke rose in slow columns, filling the room. Sunday’s hand found Tuesday’s. Their fingers laced together. The glasses caught the light on the floor.