consolation.
One of these is my Sofia, wherever she may be, all over the crippled world.
Even still, I wake like most people, in the morning and every day, after a long, brutal night and fitful sleep,and I stumble into the bathroom and think about the people, including Tanya and my Sofia, who I know are horrible and my headache pounds and the cold tile shocks and my erection sags and I empty my bladder and think another day and for what purpose and to what end and this is when I open the medicine cabinet and consider swallowing all of the painkillers and sleeping pills, but then I look into the mirror and I want to kiss myself, good God.
I take in my features all at once, though it is better to concentrate on certain aspects one at a time. Otherwise, the whole of it can be overwhelming.
There is the color and shape of my eyes, the perfect brows framing them just so. The forehead, which bears only the slightest hints of age and faded scars from a childish bout with chicken pox. The full lips with that charming birthmark edging toward the right corner, the dimpled chin obscured by a salt-and-pepper beard, neatly trimmed, the line moving from the top of my ears in a perfect L shape to the rim of my mouth.
There is a glow.
I donât know whatâs wrong with Tanya and her ideas, why she couldnât see what was always right in frontof her, though Iâve spent many a long night trying to figure out what the problem was and how it mightâve been fixed.
I try not to think about Teddy, because by rights he should be dead by now.
It pains me that the horrible people are horrible, including my Sofia and including Tanya, and I think what can I do. I am a man, after all, and I am surrounded on all sides, helpless, and all I can do is keep to myself, which I do most of the time because were I to say this out loud for anyone to hear, for anyone to take the wrong way, misinterpret, because thatâs what horrible people do the world over, in big cities and small towns and quiet villages and hamlets and rural prairie places with all of the grain waving and grandstanding, then what will become of me then?
I often think about what will become of me.
I think about what will become of my Sofia, too, wherever she may be, who is, or rather was, when I knew her, as anyone might imagine, horrible.
I do not think about what will become of Tanya because of her misguided ideas.
The few people still left in town have always taken things the wrong way, have always talked about me and my private affairs, what went on between me and my Sofia and Tanya, for instance.
This is how these people were raised. You can tell by how they look at you out of the corner of their faces, hissing, snickering. They were taught to behave like this, to take things the wrong way, to talk about other peopleâs private affairs.
People always want to tear down their betters.
My Sofia and Tanya are twin sisters, or rather, were twin sisters, because one or both might be dead now. Iâm not sure if you remain twins after death.
So many people are dead now or might be, including members of my own family.
My family did everything they could for me. They never allowed me to work on the farm, for instance. This perhaps wasnât best in the long run, but they didnât know better and I do not blame them entirely.
My Sofia was always dying.
I would feed my Sofia painkillers and sleeping pills because I wanted to help. I always had good intentions when it came to my Sofia. I didnât enjoy seeing her suffer like that, though some claim otherwise. Some claim that I only got involved with my Sofia so I could get close to Tanya. Others that I was trying my best to kill my Sofia, keep her sickly, weak. This is yet another example of how horrible people are horrible, that they can even imagine this sort of thing, which is a particularly craven way of looking at the vicissitudes of love.
I donât know what that means, but it seems right to
One of these is my Sofia, wherever she may be, all over the crippled world.
Even still, I wake like most people, in the morning and every day, after a long, brutal night and fitful sleep,and I stumble into the bathroom and think about the people, including Tanya and my Sofia, who I know are horrible and my headache pounds and the cold tile shocks and my erection sags and I empty my bladder and think another day and for what purpose and to what end and this is when I open the medicine cabinet and consider swallowing all of the painkillers and sleeping pills, but then I look into the mirror and I want to kiss myself, good God.
I take in my features all at once, though it is better to concentrate on certain aspects one at a time. Otherwise, the whole of it can be overwhelming.
There is the color and shape of my eyes, the perfect brows framing them just so. The forehead, which bears only the slightest hints of age and faded scars from a childish bout with chicken pox. The full lips with that charming birthmark edging toward the right corner, the dimpled chin obscured by a salt-and-pepper beard, neatly trimmed, the line moving from the top of my ears in a perfect L shape to the rim of my mouth.
There is a glow.
I donât know whatâs wrong with Tanya and her ideas, why she couldnât see what was always right in frontof her, though Iâve spent many a long night trying to figure out what the problem was and how it mightâve been fixed.
I try not to think about Teddy, because by rights he should be dead by now.
It pains me that the horrible people are horrible, including my Sofia and including Tanya, and I think what can I do. I am a man, after all, and I am surrounded on all sides, helpless, and all I can do is keep to myself, which I do most of the time because were I to say this out loud for anyone to hear, for anyone to take the wrong way, misinterpret, because thatâs what horrible people do the world over, in big cities and small towns and quiet villages and hamlets and rural prairie places with all of the grain waving and grandstanding, then what will become of me then?
I often think about what will become of me.
I think about what will become of my Sofia, too, wherever she may be, who is, or rather was, when I knew her, as anyone might imagine, horrible.
I do not think about what will become of Tanya because of her misguided ideas.
The few people still left in town have always taken things the wrong way, have always talked about me and my private affairs, what went on between me and my Sofia and Tanya, for instance.
This is how these people were raised. You can tell by how they look at you out of the corner of their faces, hissing, snickering. They were taught to behave like this, to take things the wrong way, to talk about other peopleâs private affairs.
People always want to tear down their betters.
My Sofia and Tanya are twin sisters, or rather, were twin sisters, because one or both might be dead now. Iâm not sure if you remain twins after death.
So many people are dead now or might be, including members of my own family.
My family did everything they could for me. They never allowed me to work on the farm, for instance. This perhaps wasnât best in the long run, but they didnât know better and I do not blame them entirely.
My Sofia was always dying.
I would feed my Sofia painkillers and sleeping pills because I wanted to help. I always had good intentions when it came to my Sofia. I didnât enjoy seeing her suffer like that, though some claim otherwise. Some claim that I only got involved with my Sofia so I could get close to Tanya. Others that I was trying my best to kill my Sofia, keep her sickly, weak. This is yet another example of how horrible people are horrible, that they can even imagine this sort of thing, which is a particularly craven way of looking at the vicissitudes of love.
I donât know what that means, but it seems right to
Similar Books
