[accidental visual | location: twelfth floor] trust our deepest secrets to the artificial lake
The sun's scrambled high into the sky like a sure-footed kid climbing a tree-it's the itch under his collar and the sweat on his palms. He raises the hoe and swings it down into dry earth, sending up a puff of dust. There's always one weed left. Sun's baleful glare on his back, he drives the blade in again. He hears himself grunt (it sounds more like a squeal, like he's gonna cry) as if from far away.
He must close his eyes because the next thing he knows his hands are empty-slick with sweat and streaked with dirt but empty. He wipes them on his pants and looks up.
His eyes go wide. His arms prickle with goosebumps; he hugs himself against the sudden cold. He takes a step back, then another-it's a white room with a bed and the covers are rumpled. Maybe he should see if they're warm but he takes another step back and stumbles over a bottle. A gasp snags on something before it can escape his throat. He freezes, goes rigid. Listens with all his might.
The tablet switches on to show a dark-haired boy in clothes-a grimy shirt, suspenders, brown pants-that are worn but not ratty stooping to carefully right a whisky bottle.
He must close his eyes because the next thing he knows his hands are empty-slick with sweat and streaked with dirt but empty. He wipes them on his pants and looks up.
His eyes go wide. His arms prickle with goosebumps; he hugs himself against the sudden cold. He takes a step back, then another-it's a white room with a bed and the covers are rumpled. Maybe he should see if they're warm but he takes another step back and stumbles over a bottle. A gasp snags on something before it can escape his throat. He freezes, goes rigid. Listens with all his might.
The tablet switches on to show a dark-haired boy in clothes-a grimy shirt, suspenders, brown pants-that are worn but not ratty stooping to carefully right a whisky bottle.