Dead I Well May Be
“A car idling. A dog barking. The distant roar of automobiles. The occasional plane. Heat. The hum of the air conditioner. Blue water in the pool. A glass of orange juice undrunk because I think it must be grapefruit by mistake. It’s bitter. A leather sofa. A computer, a bookshelf, the blinds half drawn. Dust on them. The dust spiraling up from a faux Aztec-patterned rug. A long hair on my suntanned arm. Hers. A coffee table with The Economist and a couple of letters. A painting of a moon and de...er. Also hers. A pencil sharpener in the shape of HMS Victory. An ashtray. Cigar clipper. Typing paper and soda cans in the wastepaper basket. A coffee cup, the crossword. Sleeping plants. The window. The enormous sky complete with vapor trails. The manicured and watered lawn that will never be quite green.
The room is inert, frozen, still. I look at Granpa’s photograph with the sepia faces of the dead. The tap. The dog barking furiously. My stomach growling: it’s an hour before she gets home, before I have to make dinner.MoreLess
The room is inert, frozen, still. I look at Granpa’s photograph with the sepia faces of the dead. The tap. The dog barking furiously. My stomach growling: it’s an hour before she gets home, before I have to make dinner.MoreLess
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