Small And Red

 

“My wish for America is that it jettisons its self-delusions and admits to selfishness,” said the professor, “if only for my health.” He laughed. A stolid hat of fiftyish, the rigid brim of more compelling colleagues, he bent his back into a ‘C’ from which hanged a half-head of arrested experiments: his sharp, Trotsky-beard; his monocle, black metal rim, reflecting my image and wishes for his eye. “Yours and mine both, Clyde.” I rose, stroking my bare jaw. “Must be off now.” “So soon, Marcel? You’ve only just arrived.” “Yes, yes, well,” My hand rose in a wave and found his face. The sound they made together was flat and without edge. Falling backwards, the professor upended a potted plant, spilling black earth across the yellow floor. I stepped through it as I rounded the desk. “You pig.” “Marcel!” he cried, his face pitted in struggle. I hit him again before he could roll over. A glass clipping impressed my business hand, drawing blood. It pooled in the shallows of the piece, and there collected my thoughts: small and red.