Gran Fury, Silence = Death, 1987.
It was day four hundred and fifty-eight for Paul. He weighed in at fifty-eight kilos, down from a strapping ninety-three. He was also fifty-eight years and counting. His doctor prognosed it and Paul felt old, sick, and wasted, his body no longer his own, and tomorrow would be 1999, another absolutely nothing new year.
Look for this story in our WINTER Anthology
My real name is Youssou, yes, after the famous musician. My skin is so black my Mama lovingly called me her darkest chunk of coal. When the sun dipped down, the earth cooled, and all was dark – we sat outside where family and neighbors could barely make out my hands, their fingers plucking determinedly in practice, more often tripping or tangled between strings.
The doors between the train cars open and slam without pause. Coal-filled air streams in, like a long, gray silk scarf; my top lip is gritty, moist. My memories are floating; my hand removes the lid from my teacup. I frown. My eyes only see the pale, thin depression circling scar-like around my ring finger: what’s missing is my yang to my love’s ying.
Father had money. We gave generously to the Police Auxiliary, Parents’ Association, and the church. Twice a month, eight men, most I recognized, would come to our cozy, single story, suburban home for drinks. They discussed art and smoked. Each man left with a painting under his arm.
At night, I admire her from a pillow’s distance. On my side, one hand under my head, her back is smooth perfection — God’s work of art. From her shoulders down, skin of gossamer, sublime. I see no end to the words that describe the sight before my eyes. My body tries to mimic that of Annette’s. I long for the nights we’d spoon and fall asleep.
Appearing in our WINTER – An End and a Promise publication