Knife Fight and Other Struggles Read Online Free PDF

Don’t you think he’s a bit much—being too . . . 
    too . . . 
    To which she answered: I do not agree .
    I’d drawn the curtains in my rooms, to make it dim enough for the curious eyes to open without being blinded—and sure enough, that is what they did. As I ran my tongue along her shoulder blade, I found myself looking into a tiny blue orb, no bigger than a rat’s. It blinked curiously at me as I moved past, to the nape of her neck, and there, in the wispy curls at the base of her skull, I uncovered two yellow eyes, set close together, in the forest of her hair. Were they disapproving? I imagine they must have been, affixed on Lucy’s skull, less than an inch from her brain. I winked and moved on.
    “Tell them,” I whispered into her ear, looking into a squinting, infinitely old eye fixed in her temple, “that I understand.”
    “He understands,” she murmured.
    “Tell them I’m not afraid.”
    “He’s not afraid.”
    “Tell them,” I said, before I moved from her ear to her mouth, and rolled her onto her back, and slid atop her, “that I’m ready.”

    And the rest of it?
    Well, I did tell you I’d be circumspect. Suffice it to say . . . just as poor old Len would, not long after. . . .
    I entered her.

    You looked good at my funeral. You and Jonathan both. The dress you wore—was it new? Did you buy it especially for the occasion? It would be nice to think that you had.
    In any event, I must say that Jonathan was very supportive of you. He held your hand so very tightly through the eulogies. Had you needed it, I’m sure he would have provided a handkerchief; if it had rained at the graveside, he’d have held the umbrella. He seems that sort of upright fellow. A real keeper.
    You look great now too. You have a lovely smile, you always have, and the shorter haircut—it suits you. It really frames your face. I can’t hear what you’re saying, here in Emile’s house in town, over the dregs of what I recall as being an acceptable cab franc from Chile.
    Still, you’re laughing, and that’s good. You’ve left Kimi and poor dying Len behind. You’re cementing new friendships . . . with Prabh and Emile and, perhaps, Lucy?
    Perhaps.
    It’s impossible to say of course—I haven’t been at this long enough to learn how to read lips, particularly with that damned brooch in the way. I never could guess your mind on this sort of thing. But you seem . . . open to it, to this new friend who works the cash in your favourite bookstore. You are. Aren’t you?
    Ah well. I must learn patience here in my new place. After all, Lucy will tell me everything—in due time, in a quiet moment, when the lights are low:
    She says she misses you. She says she can’t believe she let you go. Now that you’re gone.
    She says that she and I will be great friends .
    And then, if all goes well . . . if you and Lucy really do hit it off. . . .
    I can’t promise, other than to say I’ll do my best. I’ll try not to let my gaze linger.

THE EXORCIST: A LOVE STORY
    McGill smoked in the yard. They wouldn’t let him smoke inside. There was a baby there after all. McGill said he understood, but he seemed pissed off about it. He stood by the barbecue, squinting at the tree line, calculating the hour, tapping ashes through the grill top. They were pissed off about that . The next round of burgers would have a subtle flavour of McGill and probably the round after those too.
    But they would put up with it. Oh yes.
    They would bloody well put up with it.

    One of them had gone to high school with McGill. But she didn’t know him then. He had a bit of acne trouble, did McGill—quite a bit. A Biblical plague of pimples, one might say. Horrific, seeping boils from his forehead down to his neck. One over his lip, round and gleaming and red, like a billiard ball.
    An outgoing personality, some athletic talent, a fancy car—any one of these might have saved him. But McGill had none of that. So there he