A Playbook

(Signs of the Times is a work of fiction based on true events. Views expressed are the characters’ own. Viewer discretion is advised.)

A post-war construction bungalow in Portland with a great big porch. Rain drips down the faded blue trim of the roof’s fascia. Two folks in oversized bathrobes sit on a gray porch couch. Bones and Dinah, elbows on arm rests.

An ashtray on the middle cushion. Two cigarettes burning. Two cups of coffee. Thousands of raindrops falling. One thought crosses Bone’s mind.

“He weaponized antifa,” he says.

“Who?”

“Putin.”

“I’m not having this conversation.” Dinah looks into the rain. They pull the collar of their bathrobe up. Coffee cup to lips, steam swirling around their vision.

Bones stands up. He wraps the bathrobe tight around his body. Snatches the cigarette from the ashtray and begins pacing.

“A fascist is a fascist is a fascist,” he says. “And we hate fascists. They’re objectively bad people.”

“Dhude.”

“I know. I’m preaching to the choir.”

“I’ve got work in twenty.” Dinah pulls their phone from a pocket in the robe.

“Doesn’t it feel like Putin is just using literal anti-fascist rhetoric to justify the war?”

“You’re saying we’re like Putin?”

“No,” Bones says. We brawled with actual fascists.”

Dinah stands up. Stands shoulder to shoulder with Bones.

“It’s going to be a long winter,” Bones says.

“But it’s spring.”