|
fyn gula
|
i opened the gate, scraping it against broken bricks, some of them older than my granfather's knowledge of his past. a skinny dalmation barked twice, once out of fear of me, and then again so i would know i was a stranger. his tail was between his trembling legs.
i heard too much about vichy's friend pascal to let my intimidation prevent me from introducing myself. word was he was a self absorbed bastard with a sardonic wit, but i always wanted to make observations, not judgements.
i walked up the stairs, shuffling through wet, forsaken leaves. the dog sniffed my outstretched hands at a comfortable distance and then went back to gnaw on an old deer hoof. i stopped to rehearse the sentence i planned on saying.
"fuck it," i thought. "the old man will talk. i just need a question."
he was standing behind the screen door on the edge of personal history. salt and pepper beard flowing down his chest. circular glasses no bigger than the smile in his eyes, magic on his lips, just waiting for me to wave the wand.
|
020321
|
