A Story About Evening * Aspiring Writer Syndrome
I’m writing a story about my evening. In it, I take a walk up the road past Jablonski’s place to see if he should happen to be mudding that godforsaken concrete wall he’s been failing at for the last three winters.
I have a strong sense of how things will go in this story. It’s almost like I’m having visions. And since at this time of year at 8:00 the sun sets just above the branches high over the ridge, that ought to put Jablonski’s place in shadow. I can visit him without interrupting his slipshod labor.
I can see it all play out as I sit at my kitchen table drinking from the flask my father handed me on my wedding day with his characteristic disinterest.
But those days are gone, and I’m different now. For one thing, I’m real observant about nature. I give myself credit for that, since there’s no one else to do it for me. I’m not ashamed to confess that in recent months I’ve astounded myself with my observational skills. With all I’ve learned in this place where I never expected to come.
Fact one: the acoustics in my house are increasing. Sounds come back louder than before. It’s definitive, though not quite measurable. Sounds are not at all like they were when I was a kid. Now even the gas hissing on the range pierces my head like an ice pick.
