©2006 Allen Sutterfield
Like that he came, after nothing in years. A knock on the door, happened it were Monday, and, he, donning a silken robe, his only gift from a long dead time, enter Winter.
Winter was broader but of an even height. His face was fuller, so was his gut. He did not dash but one quickly felt his motion. He seemed always ready to teeter but in fact was surer on his feet. Hi hair was thinner, lighter, his face was older, possessed more of what lay behind it than on top it. His speech was articulate when conscious, other times ( more and more frequently of late) his tongue would trip ungainly over the great lacunae inside his mouth , when he opened wide it was quite as though he was aluminum inside. However, he was usually in command of his tongue, and though his lungs were black and foul, these were not seen, except in tiny bits of handkerchief, during his rare and terrible spells. then it did not matter.
Winter was in fact younger, for all his appearance. That is, by the calendar he was. Age had never downed on either as something they were but rather something they were inexorably approaching. Thus they kept its distance.
Winter was bulging bottles as he came.
"By Jesus! You!" "Its me by god!" "After all these years--"
"Has it really been?" "Sonofabitch!" "Find a corkscrew."
It had been sometime. Each could truthfully say he scarcely knew the other.
"It's this way m'boy--I've got some tickets, we're on our way (I do not travel alone, in the world at least), you come too. You're taken care of, and in a few weeks, more or less, you're returned, if you like. If you don't like, we go on. Now now no questions about where, how could that matter. Suffice it to say, this is the only time for it. Don't worry, it's not a vacation. What say? There is really only one answer."
No comments:
Post a Comment