BookBeauty
03-10-2012, 08:51 AM
I'm not hungry.
But there are these little episodes, where I'll find myself wandering to the kitchen between meals. The lights of the city's night replace the white-overcast day. An orange, golden haze streams in through the big kitchen windows. And there I go, dragging my feet to the counter that overlooks those windows, just to look out, with a piece of bread in my hand. I wouldn't really be doing any thinking, only staring.
Then, a thought rushes up to me. I forget about the bread for a few minutes. It happens when I see something. I wonder about the secret behind the scene. Everything has a story behind it. This time, just an old man, walking his dog. He had a bit of a hunch, presumably because it was a cold evening, but maybe his back was sore.
But, what about his secret life?
His border collie, energetic and playfully bounding ahead of him. Old man's head must be cold, as bald as it is, but I know as any man does-- We'll do what we like for the sake of doing what we like. Hats are itchy, and disturbingly silly-looking, the majority of the time. He must have a great deal of pride, if he's willing to show off a shiny round bowling ball of a head like that.
I can't tell from this distance, but I'd imagine he has one of those noses. You know. A large nose, with a little hook on the end, like a beak. A voice like a rumbling tenor.
The wife sent him out again, to take the dog for a walk. She named him Maggie, but he hates the name. He knew a girl once by that name. Nasty, vindictive, biting sort. Not at all the picture of the animal that couldn't help stopping to sniff at every damnable thing, greeting strangers who could be killers with the friendliness and joy of youthful ignorance.
But, maybe this old man is the killer. Maggie's only the sweet alibi, and surely his wife would vouch for him. She would never suspect his secret life. Yes, this man is a killer, or worse. There are so many that not all of them get reported. Sick, terrible people.
I suddenly remember the bread slice in my hand. The fridge seems too far away, so I take a bite. My wife is reclined on the sofa in the living room. I bought her that fluffy, pink number, and everything else in this house, while she uses my money, and comes home to watch her 'stories'...
She calls my name, and, without meaning to, I look up. ''Sweetie, dulcet, loveable darling... Could you take Maggie out for a walk? I'm simply exhausted!'' Presumably from shopping all day with my money, I sneer to myself.
''All right. I'll be back in an hour or two,'' I say, making sure to pocket my favourite knife...
But there are these little episodes, where I'll find myself wandering to the kitchen between meals. The lights of the city's night replace the white-overcast day. An orange, golden haze streams in through the big kitchen windows. And there I go, dragging my feet to the counter that overlooks those windows, just to look out, with a piece of bread in my hand. I wouldn't really be doing any thinking, only staring.
Then, a thought rushes up to me. I forget about the bread for a few minutes. It happens when I see something. I wonder about the secret behind the scene. Everything has a story behind it. This time, just an old man, walking his dog. He had a bit of a hunch, presumably because it was a cold evening, but maybe his back was sore.
But, what about his secret life?
His border collie, energetic and playfully bounding ahead of him. Old man's head must be cold, as bald as it is, but I know as any man does-- We'll do what we like for the sake of doing what we like. Hats are itchy, and disturbingly silly-looking, the majority of the time. He must have a great deal of pride, if he's willing to show off a shiny round bowling ball of a head like that.
I can't tell from this distance, but I'd imagine he has one of those noses. You know. A large nose, with a little hook on the end, like a beak. A voice like a rumbling tenor.
The wife sent him out again, to take the dog for a walk. She named him Maggie, but he hates the name. He knew a girl once by that name. Nasty, vindictive, biting sort. Not at all the picture of the animal that couldn't help stopping to sniff at every damnable thing, greeting strangers who could be killers with the friendliness and joy of youthful ignorance.
But, maybe this old man is the killer. Maggie's only the sweet alibi, and surely his wife would vouch for him. She would never suspect his secret life. Yes, this man is a killer, or worse. There are so many that not all of them get reported. Sick, terrible people.
I suddenly remember the bread slice in my hand. The fridge seems too far away, so I take a bite. My wife is reclined on the sofa in the living room. I bought her that fluffy, pink number, and everything else in this house, while she uses my money, and comes home to watch her 'stories'...
She calls my name, and, without meaning to, I look up. ''Sweetie, dulcet, loveable darling... Could you take Maggie out for a walk? I'm simply exhausted!'' Presumably from shopping all day with my money, I sneer to myself.
''All right. I'll be back in an hour or two,'' I say, making sure to pocket my favourite knife...