Evil and Heart
He used to wake me up at five a.m., eight a.m. on Saturdays and Sundays. I’d stare into his eyes and ken that skinflint angel caressing the most obtuse features seizing my morning thoughtlessness.
All sorts of miracles occurred throughout the day—tricks of the heart. When he bought me an alarm. I knew a rook had made its nest in his trunk. It was
as if he’d moved me back and forth through dosshouses, I couldn’t sleep. My friends said I resembled a comma. That was, of course, until I met Omar.
He’d call me up at five a.m., eight a.m. on Saturdays and Sundays, and grunt like a grizzly bear without constraints.
My teeth would chatter and my skin sounded like roasted, crackling pig.
But my heart never did get over those everlasting Monday’s when Steve softly poked whatever cheek he’d choose to kiss that day and say: honey, wake up!
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