As for romance, I had abandoned its cinnamon accents for a less peppery state of existence. Adding grey to crimson mutes the violence of the heart, beating itself to death.
“My, you’re cynical.”
“I am not cynical.”
“I’ve dropped in unexpectedly.”
“Tell the people that.”
“I just did.”
“And tell them your damn name.”
“Shall I improvise?”
“Do as you wish.”
“I’d like to be called Che.”
Horses and carriages trundle up and down the street. The view
from my window suffers from opacity. The buildings, people, and animals appear smudged, the space compromised, despite the reduced scale and tone of the trees and structures in the background.
“Windex works wonders.”
“I don’t wish to be suffused with clarity.”
“Address me as Che.”
“You’re being daft.”
“Daft is good word. Short and quick.”
Or I could spend time on my collage, pasting tiny pieces of newsprint into some semblance of a narrative.
“Is it based on the assassination of a Mexican Revolutionary?”
“Do you see any bullet holes or splashes of blood?”
“You once had a longstanding fascination with trains and railways. Did you abandon them or did they abandon you?”
“Leave me alone, Che.”
Constructing stories from local and personal history never appealed to me. I would rather go in a little unhinged and use the energy to spark a fire, as it were. Sometimes that doesn’t happen no matter how much your heart aches.
Salvatore Difalco’s work has appeared in a number of print and online journals.