winds and strings.

image by author.

“If ever I wanted to get settled, you’d be my point of departure — so to say. We’d need to tweak a thing or two in your, um, character? Nothing major. Small things, only. Then, I’m sure, you’d make a decent partner.”

“He said that?”
“He did.”
“In response to what?”
“I asked him how he wanted his eggs.”

“What did you reply?”
“Reply? I didn’t reply.”
“So?”
“So nothing. We were in this seedy motel room, a woman was praying in Spanish next door. Loudly. The clerk at the front desk had insisted on cash when we checked in and said that the pool was not to be used. A storm was rolling in, the air heavy with improbable smells and sweat. I looked at Dirk’s hands — they were filthy black and trembling. Our dinner was the bourbon he’d left in the bottle. Still, I knew the circumstances would take care of it all — eventually. So, instead of a reply, I simply walked out. And that was that.”