turned to face the window. Stella adjusted a button. A woman was walking by.
The old man said, “She’s here to see you.” The young man turned in his chair and saw the woman who had left him, now walking up the steps, now ringing the doorbell, now stepping inside to the tipped and welcoming hat of the older man.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve thought things through.”
The youngish man was displeased and unmoved.
“I want to be with you.”
“No,” he said, aware of his resistance. His insides felt like stones.
She asked him, “No?” ashamed and afraid. Her eyes had filled with tears.
“I think no,” the young man said. “My mother was once young like you. Then she had three children and now she lives alone.” He left her through the open door.
“Sit down, dear,” Stella said.
“No!” cried the young woman. “My heart is breaking and it’s all your fault! You and all your talking!”
“You mustn’t rush him,” the old man said, pulling down his hat. “A young man needs some time to find his mind.”
COWS AND BREAD
THE MAN PUSHED the three cows out into the field, then walked back to the house, closing the gate behind him. The thunderstorm was about to begin.
He saw the woman waiting for him, hands on her hips. As he approached he saw that she was smiling. When he got to the porch she frowned.
“I don’t like what you’re doing,” she said, and went into the house, shutting the door behind her. She would never forgive him for this.
The man stood on the porch and saw that the cows were now walking in circles, away from each other, and toward each other.
“Martha!” he called out, but she did not come. He wanted her to see this. “Martha!” he called again, but she still did not come. She had rejected him, just when he had created something beautiful for her.
The thunderclouds gathered and it started to rain. It rained hard and cold, pelting down on everything. He ran into the house, leaving the door open. She was by the fireplace, knitting.
“Martha, now! It’s about to start.”
She did not look up. “I don’t want to,” she said, and continued knitting. There was a burst of light and a crash. “You’re going to hurt those innocent animals.”
“It’ll be a wonderful spectacle!”
“I don’t want to.”
He sighed and went back outside, closing the door behind him. The animals lay charred and dead in the field. He walked back in and sat down on a chair.
“Well?” she said.
“I missed it,” he said, and looked up at her face. After a couple of minutes of sitting he went into the kitchen. There he found two pieces of bread and some salty butter. He laid the butter on thick, then took it up to bed with him. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and took a bite of bread, then put the pieces on the floor and went and stood at the pane.
“Would’ve been a beautiful sight,” he said, pressing his nose against the glass. “Yup. A beautiful sight.” He was dead sorry he had missed it.
THE MAN WITH THE HAT
THE END OF the day will come. How the man with the hat is afraid of this. How he clutches at his newspaper tight and walks through the streets with his legs clenched tight and thinks about it not at all.
Oh, how nothing matters, not at all, when the fact is: one day the lightning will come and the preachers won’t be able to stop it and neither will the famous.
THE MAN WITH the hat was sitting at a bar the other day, see, the best bar in the city with all the best folks to talk to, and he was going on about some “mail-order bride” he was considering shipping in from Honduras or maybe the Dominican Republic, he’d have to see. Then thinking to himself as the others wiped their mouths of their sloppy joe sandwiches:
“The tension of my audience will be transformed into an enormous burst of laughter, immediately drowned in applause. Frankly, I rather expect this will happen.”
Then a voice from a typical boozer: “Tell us
The old man said, “She’s here to see you.” The young man turned in his chair and saw the woman who had left him, now walking up the steps, now ringing the doorbell, now stepping inside to the tipped and welcoming hat of the older man.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve thought things through.”
The youngish man was displeased and unmoved.
“I want to be with you.”
“No,” he said, aware of his resistance. His insides felt like stones.
She asked him, “No?” ashamed and afraid. Her eyes had filled with tears.
“I think no,” the young man said. “My mother was once young like you. Then she had three children and now she lives alone.” He left her through the open door.
“Sit down, dear,” Stella said.
“No!” cried the young woman. “My heart is breaking and it’s all your fault! You and all your talking!”
“You mustn’t rush him,” the old man said, pulling down his hat. “A young man needs some time to find his mind.”
COWS AND BREAD
THE MAN PUSHED the three cows out into the field, then walked back to the house, closing the gate behind him. The thunderstorm was about to begin.
He saw the woman waiting for him, hands on her hips. As he approached he saw that she was smiling. When he got to the porch she frowned.
“I don’t like what you’re doing,” she said, and went into the house, shutting the door behind her. She would never forgive him for this.
The man stood on the porch and saw that the cows were now walking in circles, away from each other, and toward each other.
“Martha!” he called out, but she did not come. He wanted her to see this. “Martha!” he called again, but she still did not come. She had rejected him, just when he had created something beautiful for her.
The thunderclouds gathered and it started to rain. It rained hard and cold, pelting down on everything. He ran into the house, leaving the door open. She was by the fireplace, knitting.
“Martha, now! It’s about to start.”
She did not look up. “I don’t want to,” she said, and continued knitting. There was a burst of light and a crash. “You’re going to hurt those innocent animals.”
“It’ll be a wonderful spectacle!”
“I don’t want to.”
He sighed and went back outside, closing the door behind him. The animals lay charred and dead in the field. He walked back in and sat down on a chair.
“Well?” she said.
“I missed it,” he said, and looked up at her face. After a couple of minutes of sitting he went into the kitchen. There he found two pieces of bread and some salty butter. He laid the butter on thick, then took it up to bed with him. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and took a bite of bread, then put the pieces on the floor and went and stood at the pane.
“Would’ve been a beautiful sight,” he said, pressing his nose against the glass. “Yup. A beautiful sight.” He was dead sorry he had missed it.
THE MAN WITH THE HAT
THE END OF the day will come. How the man with the hat is afraid of this. How he clutches at his newspaper tight and walks through the streets with his legs clenched tight and thinks about it not at all.
Oh, how nothing matters, not at all, when the fact is: one day the lightning will come and the preachers won’t be able to stop it and neither will the famous.
THE MAN WITH the hat was sitting at a bar the other day, see, the best bar in the city with all the best folks to talk to, and he was going on about some “mail-order bride” he was considering shipping in from Honduras or maybe the Dominican Republic, he’d have to see. Then thinking to himself as the others wiped their mouths of their sloppy joe sandwiches:
“The tension of my audience will be transformed into an enormous burst of laughter, immediately drowned in applause. Frankly, I rather expect this will happen.”
Then a voice from a typical boozer: “Tell us
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