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2005 11 14
Montréal Walkups: No. 2
By Lance Blomgren

Image: Deeelem

2120 Clark

She’s certain she set her alarm. Her baby’s diapers are so full of oopsie that she wonders how long she has slept. The eyes of the puppies have opened and the three little monsters are wagging with delight under the weight of their mother’s sagging teats. The room is not as white as it had been painted, and the mailbox is overflowing with newspaper flyers. Across the street, the old cathedral has been entirely demolished, leaving only a vacant, muddy lot where a long line of well-dressed people shift uneasily in the rain, waiting to pile into their tour-bus. She notices something moving across the room, a black line winding its way along the kitchen wall, over the counter and into the next room. A trail of black insects leads from the small hole in the back screen door, down the hall through the apartment, and out the narrow gap under the front door. In the cupboard, her can of Raid is completely empty. She winds the grandfather clock in the hallway. The phone stops ringing long enough to hear the toaster pop in the other room.

Apt. D’Amours

There’s a sense of restlessness that comes at night, fog’s so dense it dampens my senses like an anesthetist: one to a hundred in reverse, bourbon, cognac, a thick alcohol sleep that turns in my head, turns in my head like a car refusing to start on an autumn night. Fernando once said, “In broad daylight, even the sounds shine.” In fog they surface as if trapped in a barrel, as if the head’s wrapped in foam. I’m out of Diet Coke and ear swabs. I sit down, then stand up. The clock says 9:32.

Image: Lance Blomgren
[email this story] Posted by David Ross on 11/14 at 06:01 AM

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