Monday, September 29, 2008

A Story with Two Blinks

His arm is intact. He had thought for a moment that it might not be. But it is. He blinks.

On the plate in front of him is a sandwich. He never eats sandwiches. In fact, he hates sandwiches. Why he has one on his plate, then, is the source of some consternation. Did I put it there? he asks himself. And the question, as he puts it to himself, sounds like a rebuke.

He glances down at the floor. He thinks a tile looks out of place. He makes a circle with his forefinger and his thumb, and then peeks through it. His massive eyeball, framed by his fingers, blinks. The tile has not been moved. It is not out of place at all. He lets his hand fall to his thigh.

If someone walked in now and scratched the man on the cheek, he would not blink. He will not blink again for the rest of this story. Twice is enough. Instead, were someone to walk in and scratch his cheek, this man would sit still and impassive. You see, he tries not to let people know that he knows they are there. This has become harder to do of late, though. But he cannot say why this is.

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