The writer bothered himself, and then he grew kind. His kindness was
of a sort, an affectation rumoured in his Proust streak. He would sometimes
plan to daydream in meetings, and portion his day sideways into the florid
collection of petals at the ‘quarter past’ of the plate. At three o’clock or at
night. The writer broke back into his house to retrieve a collection of books
that his wife was holding apart. The old tuba beheaded and placed on the
wall, its opening reflected in the lamp lighting seemed to elongate the light.
Though he compared it to an elephant, instead. His own ego—aggrieved
and ornamental, now, so annoying or was it bothersome? They had a deal.
She wouldn’t change the locks, and he agreed to meet her sister’s counsellor
every other Monday afternoon and email after about it. Her inbox filled
like a street when everyone came out of their houses following news of the
president’s assassination.
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