Time Lagby Louisa HowerowAfter he says, this isn't about you, she flicks away his hand, concentrates on the small potted vine, an upper leaf. She waits for the rest of the words, for the yellow to creep down leaf by leaf, the stems to wither. The overhead light fixture, unable to bear silence, moves outside, hangs luminescent in the winter chokecherry bush. Touch, move, leave, none of this is personal. The crushed space between them smells of mustard gas. She digs a trench. © 2005 by Louisa Howerow. All rights reserved. |