Friday, January 24, 2014
text || Lawrence Upton
She: Sitting right beside him. Stillness. She went back to her writing, singing quietly.
He: He licked his pencil; but then, without using it, threw it on the floor.
She: In her head, she paused, still writing, still singing. She phrased a complaint.
He: She was so boring, trivial. All these different words she muttered; to provoke him.
She: Stupid, she thought, stupid. It was; he was.
He: He knew, she was deep but slow, too fuzzy to mention. She'd been an exciting game. You run everything, she'd said. The slight creak of her chair now. Indistinguishable movement.
She: He thought it was dark.
He: She spoke now. "What time?"
She: He was strange, each day puzzled to find himself. Quick, insane, dark figure, bent. Snug, trying to stop.
He: She'd been lying beneath his head. Just my legs, their arrival. Joke or not, motionless, bare.
She: The ground floor of the end.
He: He liked the sound of his chair. There was some amusement. The open doorway. He was being testy, a hole through strangeness.
She: He was winning again. His mouth drew her, the look.
He: Something under each day without words. A recalcitrant look today.
She: She pushed her annoyance again.
He: In the dark on the seat opposite. He didn't understand it.
She: The fabric of her, the vehicle, her boots. People taking notes. Talking sounds whispered.