The Old Man and the Boy
The scarf was wound too tight around the old man’s throat. He tugged and loosened it until a comfortable gap opened at the nape of his throat. Then, he knocked on the door. He watched his breath push out in silky silver plumes. It was February and the sky was a dead white. His face was numb and Christmas was past so long as to be almost forgotten. The door opened.
A woman almost as tall as the man stood inside. She wore a baby blue night gown beneath a faded pink bath robe. Her face was tired.
“Hello,” the man said.
She did not return his welcome.
“Can I come in?”
She stood aside and the old man walked into the apartment. It was neither clean nor dirty, the furniture not old or new. The indistinct sound of a television drifted in from some further room.
“Have you come to see him?” came a soft voice behind him. He turned around. Her cheeks were a pale red, not a youthful glow but the sort of color that comes from being stuffed inside for too long.
“Yes,” he said.
“He’s not in, but you’re welcome to wait for him.”
“Where is he?”
The woman shrugged and walked into the kitchen. Steam rose from a cup on the table. The woman drank from the cup and watched the man. She did not…
