12
- 12 -
There was only so long Rodin could stay in his room. He’d imagined punching the walls too many times, woke up fully clothed unsure if he’d meant to go to bed, and the only clue he had to the time of day was when he uncovered his window, checked if it was light or not outside. His whole body ached, and his head throbbed.
He needed to walk. So he mustered whatever enthusiasm he could, forced his feet into his boots, pulled his arms through the sleeves of his jacket, and left the building.
It was evening, close to dusk, and the air was sickening sweet with blossom. The streets were damp but clean, a couple of men in overalls operating a machine that scrubbed the paving a short distance off.
Rodin imagined the men with their throats slit, the paving turning crimson.
He walked,
