He stayed off work for the rest of the week. By Friday, his wife could no longer disguise her alarm.
He could keep nothing down, and had trouble getting anything in. Spoonfuls of soup were sour in his mouth, and he had to spit them back into the bowl. He choked on more generous fare. He kept secret from his wife the strange protrusion he could feel in the centre of his gut, an oval of hard, obdurate matter, like a thickened column of muscle. Taking it in both hands, he could move the growth, or the swelling, whatever it was, first from one side then to the other before it met any internal resistance.regression
Crutch reached into the sink and resumed washing the plate. It was black ceramic and embossed with Latin words around the perimeter. Crutch had no idea who thought plates like this were a good idea. They were Rocky’s, originally, but even Rocky couldn’t remember where they came from. Rocky said the words were magic – forgotten spells and arcana. Crutch hated washing them. Food coagulated in the letters’ crenellations.a story about werewolves and vampires
He walked up the hill to the station so he could see all of the place, and all of the place looked how they filmed soft-focus in old porn, with petroleum jelly on the lens. He didn’t know if they still did that anymore. Maybe some studios did, trying to be more authentic. Those greased-over actresses would be like the old dogs on the Rue de _____ now. All the old dogs except Rosa.
The greased-over men would be like him.rosa, goodnight