Charlie Bertsch (cbertsch) wrote,
Charlie Bertsch


"Have you thought of all the doors that have shut at night and opened again?"

Charles was trying to signal the waiter.

"People come through the gateway, people in streams and clusters, in mass assemblies. No one seems to be alone. This is a place to enter in crowds, seek company and talk."

Suddenly it hit him, in the belly, and spread to his chest in a single surge: he knew then that they were not his friends but had turned against him, and the knowledge left him hollow and dry inside, like the locust's shell.

"He's nice to look at," I said.

"Like you?" He wanted to look.

"Well," I said.

What he needed was a pal, a straight fellow to give an account to. What he had not known was that, at a given time, that first nature could return to a man, unchanged by all the pursuits and passions and experiences of his life.

"I can't look at him."

"I know." I suppose the fact that I was a kind of stray and had no family, made it easier for him to unbend to me.

"I've always done just what I wanted. I do feel such a bitch." He was not sure why he was crying. He could get no rest as long as the memories were tangled with the present.
Tags: prose

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