Transit Is the Only Love
Please note: MP3s are only kept online for a short time, and if this entry is from more than a couple of weeks ago, the music probably won't be available to download any more.
"Edmund, you're a witch." Tate was a bright 3, his child from Jen, by whom he was divorced the previous year. "A witch?! But witches are women!" He sat on the arm of the armchair, his long belted coat draped like a flag over his shoulders; he couldn't stay long. "I don't care," said Tate, he had a way of not looking at you when he talked to you, which implied an intelligence, a rudeness, and also nothing at at all. "What makes you think I'm a witch?" said Edmund. "You move around really fast." There was only so much reasoning to expect from a 3-year-old, and one did a lot filling in the blanks, often too much. Edmund thought of how he might call and say he's somewhere and then quickly arrive. He thought of himself moving quickly around the house, picking Tate up and spinning him in the air. He thought about the last time he was on a plane, and how he had to piss worse than any other time in his life. He thought about the way traveling shakes the juices out of you. All the chemicals get shaken loose, and you could cry or shove somebody or just look at nothing and feel nothing. He looked at Tate, standing by an empty box, humming. "Hey, Tate?" Tate didn't look over, but Edmund could tell he was listening, as could he tell was Jen, moving silently in the kitchen round the corner, "Call me Dad."
[5$]Posted by Dan at January 13, 2012 4:44 PM