February 05, 2007
Page 29
When I stop at the sixteenth step and open my eyes, I am, as always, straight in front of my door. I pull two days worth of newspapers and a couple letters from my mailbox and slip them under my arm. I pull my keys from the far recesses of my pocket and, holding them in my hand, I rest my forehead on the frigid steel door for a moment. Behind my ear I hear a slight metallic noise -- my body soaking up the alcohol like cotton; me only barely in control of my senses. Great.
I open the door maybe a third of way and slip through and close it. The entrance was absolutely silent. More silent than necessary.
Then, I noticed the existence of red pumps in the entrance. They were pumps I'd seen before. Stuck between my mud-spattered tennis shoes and some cheap beach sandals they looked like an out-of-season Christmas present. Silence, like a fine dust, floated through the air.
She was slumped over the kitchen table, head on her arms, profile hidden by her straight, black hair. I could see the white nape of her neck, untouched by the sun.
[Ed. note: So it turns out it's hard to translate drunken hallway-walking. This is beautiful in the translation and I haven't begun to do it justice. I've also cheated from Birnbaum a lot. Oh well. Also, verb tense. Shh.]
Posted by tim at February 5, 2007 11:50 PM
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