Gangly boy, Indian style by the bent and beaten accordion door of the townhouse garage. Knocking off surrounding shingles, playing ricochet—”catch” takes two—with a fuzzed-out, soggy yellow tennis ball ‘til he loses it to traffic. Mother works a second shift tonight, so he will make blue-boxed pasta again. The five pm fathers return to neighborhood . . . → Read More: Father
That was the day of the smell. He lazed in the shower, slowly massaging shampoo into the smoothness of his bald pate, out of habit, for comfort. He washed his hair that day the same way he had since childhood; though only a score of strands remained, he pushed his pink fingers through it ceremonially, . . . → Read More: Closed Even When Open
Two Across is ‘love’ and he tells her so and she fills it in. He waits for her reaction; there is no reaction. The clue was ‘amorous sentiment’ and he solved it easily because he sits at the counter with her and the shampoo in her shower damp hair is redolent.
“One Down is ‘alas,’” . . . → Read More: Holophrastic
It could have been happening for days by the time he noticed. Happening for days before anyone like him, anyone in his situation, would ever have noticed.
By his mid-twenties he wasn’t fooling anyone with a comb-over, a comb-forward. His wife told him so. He bought an old electric razor at a yard sale, began . . . → Read More: Malady