Garbo Laughs
“It sat on the corner of her desk, looking more and more like an ancient artifact as it faded from green to parchment brown. I think of you in your rambling house in Massachusetts, and of a sentence I read in a book about Chekhov: “The doors of the Russian house are wide open.” I’m tired of pretending to like things more than I do. Like Ottawa more than I do. Like Lew more than I often do. I’m tired of having to work up an attachment to things. Tired of life being so much less vivid than it coul...d be.
It was three in the morning. In the sky a half moon shone above the mighty oak in loud Ray’s backyard, a tree that used to shade four yards, including her own, but now half of it was dead and the rest was dying, branch by branch. Lew had his own idea why. Last summer he’d said thoughtfully, “I think it’s tired of listening to all the traffic on Bronson Avenue.” But Lew had a sensitive ear and a fine voice, unlike herself, who took two days to recognize “Auld Lang Syne”MoreLess
It was three in the morning. In the sky a half moon shone above the mighty oak in loud Ray’s backyard, a tree that used to shade four yards, including her own, but now half of it was dead and the rest was dying, branch by branch. Lew had his own idea why. Last summer he’d said thoughtfully, “I think it’s tired of listening to all the traffic on Bronson Avenue.” But Lew had a sensitive ear and a fine voice, unlike herself, who took two days to recognize “Auld Lang Syne”MoreLess
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