![]() ![]() Turning on lights, a certain anxiety, she continued pulling him deeper and deeper into her home. ![]() Then she tugged him by the hand into her home. Holding him by both ears, as she often did, she kissed him on the forehead. He dove dizzily, quickly, into that familiar smell-cigarettes, sweet onion, scabby dog, soap, beauty cream, and old beef, alone for years. It wasn’t a habit, these touches, caresses. But now, after so many years, he’d learned to translate it as how-I’ve-missed-you, welcome, how-great-to-see-you, or something of the kind. ![]() “You didn’t say you were coming,” she grumbled in her old sour way, which before he’d been unable to comprehend. They took measure of one another for a while that way-the one from outside, the other from inside the house-until she pulled away, not the least surprised. He tucked his hands in his pockets, looked for a cigarette or a keychain to fiddle with between his fingers, before the small window near the door popped open.įramed by the rectangle, she squinted to get a better look at him. ![]() And he recognized the worn rug, once purple, later just red, then each time a lighter shade of pink-now, what color?-and heard the tuneless bark of a dog, a nighttime cough, dry sounds, then he felt the light from inside the house, filtered through the window, fall on his unshaven face, three days unshaven. Only after ringing the doorbell many times did he finally hear the rumble of footsteps coming down the stairs. ![]()
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