frog in her pocket, I’m taking it home with me, she says, covering her pocket with her hand. It will die, says Adina. The girl laughs, that doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all, she says. The agronomist looks up at the sky, catches a bit of thistle fluff with his hand and whistles the song about the maid. Two boys sit on a half-full crate, twins, nobody can tell them apart, they are two times one boy.
One twin sticks two thick red tomatoes under his shirt, the other fondles the tomato breasts with both hands, then crooks his fingers, squashes the tomatoes inside the shirt and looks with empty eyeballs at the girl with the frog. The shirt turns red, the girl with the frog laughs. The twin with the squashed tomatoes scratches the other in the face, they fall in a tangle onto the ground. Adina holds her hand out to help them up, but then pulls it back, which one started it, she asks. The girl with the frog shrugs her shoulders.
A necktie
With one hand the cyclist wheels his bike along the sidewalk, the gear chain rattles. His steps stay between the wheels as he walks past the park and toward the bridge.
The man with the reddish-blue flecked tie is coming off the bridge headed into the park. He holds a long white cigarette down by his knee, a wedding ring shines next to the filter. The man blows smoke into the shrubbery, and into the park which in the breath of fear causes people to lift their feet high. The man has a fingernail-sized birthmark between his ear and his collar.
The cyclist stops, pulls a cigarette from his pocket. He doesn’t say a word, but the man with the tie raises his long white cigarette and gives the other a light. The cyclist spits out tobacco, the flame consumes a red ring on the tip of the cigarette. The cyclist blows smoke and walks on, wheeling his bicycle.
* * *
A branch cracks in the park. The cyclist turns his head, it’s merely a blackbird in the shade that can only move by hopping. The cyclist draws in his cheeks and blows smoke into the park.
* * *
The man with the reddish-blue flecked tie stands at the crossing, waiting for the light. When it turns green he will hurry, because Clara has crossed the street.
* * *
Inside the store Clara stands next to the fur coats, the man’s eyes watch her through the display window. He tosses his half-smoked cigarette onto the asphalt and blows a shred of smoke into the shop.
The man turns the tie rack. All the lamb fur coats are white except for one, which is green, as though the pasture had nibbled through the coat after it had been stitched together. The woman who buys it will certainly stand out in winter. She’ll bring summer with her even in the middle of the snow.
The man with the reddish-blue flecked tie carries three ties to the window, the colors look different in this light, he says, which suits me the best. Clara holds a finger to her mouth, you or what you’re wearing, she asks. Me, he says, as her hand squeezes the green lamb collar. None of them, she says, the one you have on is nicer. His shoes are polished, his chin is smooth, his hair has a part like a white thread, PAVEL, he says, reaching for her hand. Instead of shaking it he squeezes her fingers. She sees the seconds ticking on his watch, says her name, sees his thumbnail, then his ironed creases, he holds her hand too long under his thumb, LAWYER, he says. Behind the man is an empty shelf, dusty and full of fingerprints. You have a beautiful name, says Pavel, and a beautiful dress, that can’t be from here. I got it from a Greek woman, says Clara.
* * *
Her eyes are empty and her tongue is hot, she can tell from the dust on the shelf that it’s darker in the store and brighter on the street, that the midday hour is dividing the light between inside and out. She wants to go, but he is holding her hand. She feels a small shiny wheel spinning in her throat. He walks her through the door. And once outside, where his nose
One twin sticks two thick red tomatoes under his shirt, the other fondles the tomato breasts with both hands, then crooks his fingers, squashes the tomatoes inside the shirt and looks with empty eyeballs at the girl with the frog. The shirt turns red, the girl with the frog laughs. The twin with the squashed tomatoes scratches the other in the face, they fall in a tangle onto the ground. Adina holds her hand out to help them up, but then pulls it back, which one started it, she asks. The girl with the frog shrugs her shoulders.
A necktie
With one hand the cyclist wheels his bike along the sidewalk, the gear chain rattles. His steps stay between the wheels as he walks past the park and toward the bridge.
The man with the reddish-blue flecked tie is coming off the bridge headed into the park. He holds a long white cigarette down by his knee, a wedding ring shines next to the filter. The man blows smoke into the shrubbery, and into the park which in the breath of fear causes people to lift their feet high. The man has a fingernail-sized birthmark between his ear and his collar.
The cyclist stops, pulls a cigarette from his pocket. He doesn’t say a word, but the man with the tie raises his long white cigarette and gives the other a light. The cyclist spits out tobacco, the flame consumes a red ring on the tip of the cigarette. The cyclist blows smoke and walks on, wheeling his bicycle.
* * *
A branch cracks in the park. The cyclist turns his head, it’s merely a blackbird in the shade that can only move by hopping. The cyclist draws in his cheeks and blows smoke into the park.
* * *
The man with the reddish-blue flecked tie stands at the crossing, waiting for the light. When it turns green he will hurry, because Clara has crossed the street.
* * *
Inside the store Clara stands next to the fur coats, the man’s eyes watch her through the display window. He tosses his half-smoked cigarette onto the asphalt and blows a shred of smoke into the shop.
The man turns the tie rack. All the lamb fur coats are white except for one, which is green, as though the pasture had nibbled through the coat after it had been stitched together. The woman who buys it will certainly stand out in winter. She’ll bring summer with her even in the middle of the snow.
The man with the reddish-blue flecked tie carries three ties to the window, the colors look different in this light, he says, which suits me the best. Clara holds a finger to her mouth, you or what you’re wearing, she asks. Me, he says, as her hand squeezes the green lamb collar. None of them, she says, the one you have on is nicer. His shoes are polished, his chin is smooth, his hair has a part like a white thread, PAVEL, he says, reaching for her hand. Instead of shaking it he squeezes her fingers. She sees the seconds ticking on his watch, says her name, sees his thumbnail, then his ironed creases, he holds her hand too long under his thumb, LAWYER, he says. Behind the man is an empty shelf, dusty and full of fingerprints. You have a beautiful name, says Pavel, and a beautiful dress, that can’t be from here. I got it from a Greek woman, says Clara.
* * *
Her eyes are empty and her tongue is hot, she can tell from the dust on the shelf that it’s darker in the store and brighter on the street, that the midday hour is dividing the light between inside and out. She wants to go, but he is holding her hand. She feels a small shiny wheel spinning in her throat. He walks her through the door. And once outside, where his nose
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