Good for It

He didn’t know why she walked with her tongue in the palm of her hand. To ask her would be to demolish the silence. No matter what she thinks of him, he is not the destroyer. He wanted to explain the way of the circles but she could not listen with ears she purchased from the corner stand last week.

They were cheap, and she was on a budget. Is it better to hear distortions than not hear at all? she asked the man behind the stand. He nodded, the cigar between his teeth bobbled with his motion. She always admired the way a man can smile with lit tobacco between his teeth. She wanted to ask him of heaven, but she knew this was neither the place nor the feeling for such a question. He stretched out his arm ready to receive her worth. She gave it to him without hesitation. Dead faces woven together whispering I’m good for it, baby. He accepted the presidents’ whisper as she walked away with her new distorted ears.

The traffic sounded like a symphony. She was bewildered by the idea that something so irking to her eardrums was now melodic. A child’s cry—a small violin—playing my heart beats for you.

He saw her walk through the door, keys in hand. The keys dropped to the basket in the foyer. He nodded to her. She placed her tongue on the kitchen counter. What’s for dinner? he mouthed. She smiled and raised one eyebrow to the clouds. She lifted a butcher’s knife to her tongue.


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