Self-Portrait
Jehovah’s Witnesses had always struck me as Bolsheviks. But I had never seen a Bolshevik like her.
Jehovah’s Witnesses had always struck me as Bolsheviks. But I had never seen a Bolshevik like her.
A man with a mustache and glasses is kneeling over his garden pulling weeds. He spots me and motions me over. “You are that American, nay?” he says. “I heard you took the apartment in the back. My name is Wolf.” “I’m Brian. Nice garden, Wolf.” “Not bad, nay? It keeps me busy. And you? […]
Went West with dust of haunted dreams in my blood. Stopped just short of where white caps crash against the sky. In Denver, just to get away, because I have to get away from something, just to kill some time, because I have to kill something.
The man in that picture could not possibly have sensed that his upwardly mobile aspirations would one day leave him estranged from the very life and family he’d hope to build, that being a parent and husband would be little more than a hobby he practiced in his free time. I almost feel sorry for him.
I take what is left of my potatoes and flatten them out on the rim of the plate. I want her to acknowledge how smooth I’ve gotten them.
I smirk.
My silence has no motive.