It was that one thread emerging from under the seam. That one damned thread. Pull at it and the whole garment would surely wave up all rugged. Haggard. Snap it off entirely and it would leave a subtle line a third on a inch thick held taught, so out of place in its surroundsings. So very out of place. That one damned thread.
I never noticed until I finished the cigarette I rolled with such haste to spare my hands, but my breath proffered its own tiny contribution to the thickness of the fog.
The walls will remember the times we share here. The empty space the couch left marks an eliptical eclipse in the dust. The paper, what's left of it, hangs off those bear walls in tatters, but there will be new paper soon, when we are far away, and the walls will remember.
And I'm sitting touching my brow, ouching it agains and again and no it can't be. That one silver hair I tore from my receding hairline. Sylvia said she likes grey hair. That it's charming. What does she know? She can't see my face turn red or feel my hands go clammy. One silver hair sparking off a chair reaction.
Reilly never raised his voice but his tone turned swift and daggered. His shoulders spread out wide from his chest, his eyes lain themselves bare, wide open - his pupuls dialated, two black moons the closest in their orbit to earth. Me.
No comments:
Post a Comment