“You want to learn how to write.”
“No sir. I want you to teach me writing.”
He stopped sipping and set the drink down. A cloud of gloom lingered in his eyes. The cup began to jitter atop the wooden surface of the table, the drink’s surface vibrating as if whipped by a wind. The silence got so cold I could feel it chill my bones. Outside, a dull sun towered above the buildings, accompanied by wraps of grey contrails. I could hear the distant hum of a mower, softly, like a choir of buzzing bees.
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” I said. I’d learned, by reading his works, to maintain brevity. Statements like ‘I am sixteen years old’ were windy, boring.
“Do you intend to go to college?”
“Are you writing any exams soon?”
“I have the next six months free, sir.”
He sighed. “Do you have a mother?” Continue reading “Memories”