From My Hard Drive
Author’s Note: This is a reprint of a short story than originally ran in SPLIT Quarterly.
Underwater
He weaves the thick strips of brown leather together slowly, seemingly fascinated that they have a smooth and a rough side. On the suede he traces his index finger slowly, almost lovingly, pushing against the grain, and then smoothing it down with the grooves of his fingerprints.
She looks him over, wanting to make eye contact and knowing he’s not about to grant that small favor to her.
“Hi, honey,” she says, in as much sing-song as she can muster.
He goes about looping another strip of belt material into the snake he already created. She sees that he is making a neat pattern of light and chocolate brown leather. A bit of sweetness in this bland, quiet universe of his. His hair is tousled, even matted in a few places, and he smells a little of urine. Smelling that upsets her. She needs to speak to the staff about that.
She flinches as a man, across the floor from her, squeals at a piece of Formica that is escaping the countertop one increment at a time, near the arts and crafts station. He is suddenly obsessed, slipping his fingers under it and listening to the flap as it slaps back down where it was still glued in place. Flap, flap, flap, flap.
“What are you making there,” she asks the beltmaker.
He continues the pattern. “Water,” he whispers. Read More…