Give Over, Graymalkin

Barbaro

46 barbarO By second replay of his reigned, fraught stumble across combed track, ankle flapping horribly wrong angles, I realize I am sitting in the same chair, my wife on the cushion of loveseat, as the morning the towers collapsed. When I look, she is crying again. I have set my glass on its coaster although I do not remember this. I recognize a dense, liquified quality to the air, the unfamiliar aspect of my living room, prints and paintings hung straight, photograph of stallions galloping in moonlight Claudia’s since childhood. We’ve no classes today, as we did then, this being Saturday and summer, time of ease and sport, but agree without speaking to dress and find a crowd. The drive, too, mostly silent. Before we leave, on-line reports already conjecture “multiple fractures,” “please pray,” and worse. When we stop at the Indians’ store for forgotten wine, I wait outside. At remodeled Bangkok Cuisine, I can’t drink, can’t swallow the inky Tempranillo, eat without incident lemongrass and coconut milk soup, phad thai with fried tofu, my wife’s favorite meal. It does taste good. I ingest most of what’s put before me and manage one churlish monologue about infants and parents being allowed in public, or even to live. We admire the hardwood floors installed (bargain at a rumored $30,000) by the chef’s husband and polished to such sheen the planks seem fabricated. For no good reason, I tuck my fortune into a pocket without sharing, although immediately I’ve forgotten its instruction. Then we tip heavily and can go. Here is what I’m telling you: We cork a nearly full bottle 47 and I steer carefully, car top up, though I do feel one moment of illogical panic as to the dog’s welfare. Home. No news on the internet. We watch the end of a laugher TV disaster movie, earthquake cracking California to island, go to bed facing oppositely. And the last of it: Long window dressings of lightning. For hours, artillery of thunder rattling empty sky. What, finally?: At 3:47 a.m. rain and hail arrived, siege on the house began. I heard hooves against our roof, gutters overwhelmed, and suppose Claudia did, too. The Gods of War. Were there ever another kind? ...