He grabs me, the force in his fingers jolting. My eyes focus, unfocus – I see a blur of lines, of white, of shoulder-borne black.
My mouth opens, and unprepared for conversation the first words are forced. With back to a window I face him, and around him the city moves; his voice booms – I won’t have to dredge for words in that violent wash.
“Are you anywhere close to done?”
“No,” I confess hangdog. It is a question we’re commonly asked.
“Well, neither am I,” he offers, and we share the silence of two men at the end of the line – and who know it.
Allen A. George
December 10, 2007