| This morning, the lovers— who last night were slurring and stumbling and when I looked out, each gripping the other’s taut throat in a clench of callous and nail—sit on their front steps. The woman smokes an idle cigarette. The man lounges two steps down from her and leans his head into her lap. Beer cans and husks of blue crab from their cookout scuttle by in languid breeze. The woman flicks the stub of her cigarette into the street and kisses her man on his forehead. In the kitchen behind me, Naomi turns on the coffee grinder. I look back at her but don’t bother to complain about the racket this time. I’m more interested in the lovers. Or, I was—they’re boring me now. I liked them better when the radio was pumping from their open window, and they were clawing out, under the streetlight, the terms of their love. Copyright © 2016 by Iain Haley Pollock. Used with permission of the author. |
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