FOUR
Sigmund Merde didn’t want to be here; what was he doing here? He didn’t want to be anywhere, though he would prefer to be anywhere but here, but, he needed to be here. He leaned against the wall, hard, as if he were trying to press himself into and through the masonry, fingering the flock wallpaper as he did so, the nap, expensive, posh; he rubbed it like he used to do with felt and suede when he was a boy. His mother had given him some felt squares to stop him carrying his father’s Hush Puppy shoes around with him, like a lost kid with a dog, and it was a comfort, and he still had one of the almost bare cloths. It had gone with him everywhere. His daughter also liked to do it; not that he had seen her in a very long while, and he wondered if she still sought that comfort. He wondere
