He got up to put on a record, vinyl was his thing now. He liked the step-by-stepness of it, the process. He held the record the way people hold records, not with his fingers but with his palms. He blew on it. The music was a soft whisper, one acoustic guitar, no voices. When he came back to the table he asked me to look at his eyes.
They're seeping, he said. Like I have an infection or something.
Pink eye? I asked.
I don't know, he said. They always seem to be running, just clear liquid, not pus. I lie in bed and all this liquid dribbles out the sides. Maybe I should see a doctor, or optometrist or something.
You're crying Nic.
No…
Yes. That's what they call crying.
But all of the time? he asked. I'm not even conscious of it then.
It's a new kind of crying, I said. For the new times. I leaned over and put my hands on his shoulders and then on the sides of his face in the same way that he'd held his record.
They're seeping, he said. Like I have an infection or something.
Pink eye? I asked.
I don't know, he said. They always seem to be running, just clear liquid, not pus. I lie in bed and all this liquid dribbles out the sides. Maybe I should see a doctor, or optometrist or something.
You're crying Nic.
No…
Yes. That's what they call crying.
But all of the time? he asked. I'm not even conscious of it then.
It's a new kind of crying, I said. For the new times. I leaned over and put my hands on his shoulders and then on the sides of his face in the same way that he'd held his record.
( Miriam Toews )
[ All My Puny Sorrows ]
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