There is a whoosh of air through the vent beneath the bed and into the dining room below. B sits back and wants to know where I was tonight; of course, I was here the whole time. There was nowhere else and there is no one else, but my leg was hurting again. Snatches of dust waft up under the shade of the trumpet lamp and the toilet hisses. I turn and fix my eyes on the glowing red colony at the top of the hill and listen for the train. Sorry.
There is only one room. There are three rooms and you have to go through the pink bathroom to get into the front room or the bedroom. There is a balcony outside and Ball Circle freezes below. Outside is the Beach, outside is Mason Hall, the woods, the walnut tree, Church Street. It is a small house with green shutters and only Colleen and I live on the top floor in apartments. The bathroom is in the hallway. There are Mexicans in the basement and the hospital is behind the house, I wince.
B is already downstairs and outlining another chapter about an imaginary Prussian identity. I am thinking about jobs near the bay and hoping the Parisian designer sleeps tonight. There is static on the television, a screech, and nothing at all. Somewhere outside of the tent I can hear an owl breaking bones in its throat. The collar is turned up on my winter coat and she keeps walking.
At that time, my back was pressed up against a baseboard and I really should have felt more but it was too late. The lie came easily and I hung up. My toes were blood red splotches on the cream carpet and we flew the next day to Georgia. By the end I was feeling nothing at all. It had stopped in November when I froze in the road, or maybe it was long gone before then. This is probably a very insufficient apology. Back then I was lying to you. I pull the flannel sheets around me and suppose I am getting at the truth.