sunnudagur, júní 10, 2007


Summer is back like an uncle you haven't seen since you were a kid. He's just the same. His forearms are thick; you used to wonder at the ropey muscles moving under the skin. There are black hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck that run into the collar of his shirt. Whether he is tanned from the sun or just swarthy you were never sure.

The sun has gone down finally, and you're both sitting on the porch steps. You can see fireflies in the next yard. He is telling a story you heard him tell when you were little. There's a rasp in his voice like a staticky radio; when he laughs it's the crack of the bat.

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