"We talked a lot, but he seldom listened: then I would get angry." A faint smell of whiskey on her breath.
She continues to talk openly about her life. The sun's rays come through the cafe window on the side of her face. I notice a tiny bruise below her left eye.
"During the last months of our life together, we whipped each other; We thought we were talking -- but, we whipped each other on our mouths; one word, one crack of the whip after the other."
She pauses for a moment, then says in a matter-of-fact tone, "Now, I like old men, but they sometimes talk a little too much."
in the middle
of an awkward silence ...
robinsong
Cattails, January 2016
