L (and Things Come Apart) Read Online Free PDF

waits for the water to cool he cuts open the remaining tea bag and empties the dry leaves into his hand. He can hear his wife’s voice telling him to open another bottle but he doesn’t turn to face her. He folds the tea bag and puts it into his pocket. Already he has forgotten the bottle he was supposed to open. He spoons a small amount of spices into the water. Cloves. Cardamom. Cayenne. He stirs repeatedly, blending the ingredients. He brings the cup to his lips and sips gently.
    Looking outside the window, he wonders how it’s possible that so many days can pass in such a short amount of time; the older he gets, the faster time passes. He had always thought the opposite would be true. He is accelerating towards his eventual end at breakneck speed and can do nothing to slow this momentum. As he sips the tea, he reasons that if in fact he has a soul, it has surely left his body. He feels a sort of romantic contempt for life, as though it were his sworn enemy. He has done so well at feeling so little until this moment, but suddenly the enormity of his insignificance begins to tighten into a knot in his chest.
    He puts the tea down and passes a towel across a bowl. Outside, autumn marches towards its end. In the dining room the guests continue talking. As he stares out the window above the sink, he sees the reflection of the other female guest. She’s standing beside him but they look at each other through their reflections. She passes him a pile of plates and he takes them from her.
    â€œThe sky is only ever white or black. This weather makes it seem as though we’re trapped in some old film,” she says, as she places a cup beneath the water and runs her fingers along the rim. Henry continues drying the bowl. She hands Henry the cup, which he dries in the same circular manner, saying nothing, hoping only that she might stay.
    She lets the water run and continues to wash the remaining dishes, holding each under the water a final time before passing it to Henry and he wonders how he can feel so close to someone without ever having felt their touch.
    â€œThis city…” he says.
    â€œI know.”
    â€œThere’s something about it. It just wasn’t made right.”

12
    HENRY ASSUMED THE CUSTOMER WAS A BUILDER assumed the customer was a builder by the missing thumb and tool belt hanging loose around the waist. He asked the builder about work and the builder said simply, “Work has been slow. Strike slows everything. After the transit workers left, it was only a matter of time before we did too.”
    â€œThings will be back to normal soon.”
    â€œI hope so,” said the builder. “But that’s not the problem. Or maybe it is the problem. Things are not right.”
    Henry could see the builder wanted to talk so he walked to the far end of the counter, dried his hands on his pants, crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall.
    â€œI’ve been doing private work on the side. I have to eat, my kid has to eat. Little jobs. Just for the cash.”
    Henry listened, nodded and turned to pour coffee into a mug assuming that the early to bed early to rise custom of the job called for such drinks, but this was not the usual builder. And when Henry saw a thumb-less hand waving for him to stop pouring, pointing instead to something a little stronger, he decided to pry.
    â€œSo what are you working on?”
    â€œA bathroom. For a neighbour. Not the most lucrative, but it’s work. All I had to do was knock out a wall. That was yesterday. This morning I returned and it was finished. But not just finished—it was immaculate. It was fit for a museum, exactly as I had imagined it. I couldn’t believe it. I had to try it. To be sure it was real.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd? And I didn’t want to get up. I must have sat there for an hour just admiring the place. When I stood my legs were numb and I fell. All I could do was lie there.