Last night I told her about the traces he had found (the broken window, the plaid cloth), and also about his conviction that we were ‘closing in.’ She pursed her lips and repeated, ‘Closing in.’ That was all she said on the subject, and her tone was hard to read. But I sensed there was something she wanted to say, so I was not surprised this morning when she woke with my alarm. Now, while I stand beside the toaster, I’m waiting for her to speak. She’s been brooding at the kitchen table, her face still pale from sleep, her blond hair frazzled into an aureole. When I turn my back to her I can still feel her watching me, and so—to have something to do with my hands—I prematurely pop the toaster. I busy myself with the butter knife, frowning down at the soft slices, barely warm. When I glance back up, she is indeed still watching me. Even her pajamas are watching me: the polka-dot pants; the white tank top, semé with cartoon owls. They ocellate her body, multiplying her watching a hundredfold.
What do You think about A Questionable Shape (2013)?
