On the days when I imagine he’s here, Dom is in the photograph I took that night we drove to the party in the East.
It’s after the party. It’s just me and him and we’re at the Granville chicken shop. In the background of the photograph there is the street behind the shop glass. On the street there is the red-edge of a tail-light blurring into the white metal of the Pontiac Trans-Am. The car is a ghost car, it floats above the grey of the road like a space-ship that can’t be held down to the ground.
On the other side of the glass, in the inside of the chicken shop there’s Dom with his electric-blue eyes popping out of his head like someone’s plugged him in. His face is tilted upward, his chin is sticking out. In his hand he’s got a chicken sandwich. He looks like he’s about to climb up onto one of the plastic tables and launch himself through the glass and out into the street where the cars are waiting for him.