What Are You Trying to Tell Me?
299 Words
What Are You Trying to Tell Me?
Leslie hung up his coat, tossed his hat on the hall table and missed it by a large margin. Leave it. After six hours of shelving new arrivals, alphabetizing “out of orders,” dealing with demanding regulars who browsed rather than bought, and then seeing to his flock during the night’s raid, he was completely fagged.
He walked carefully over to the desk and switched on the lamp. With the blackouts down and the rest of the room in darkness, the light seemed to draw his attention to the portfolio.
Leslie pulled out Edward’s sketches, one at a time and set aside the pieces he’d previously examined—older, signed drawings that had already appeared in The Globe. Looking over the work, he discovered an unfamiliar one, a burned-out building, possibly a factory, reflected in a moonlit river. Leslie heard a noise. He sensed a presence, something or someone moving behind him. He turned around and the light flickered then dimmed.
Leslie shrugged and went back to the sketch. Something’s off. I know it. But what? If only…
“Do you like it?” Edward said. He was on the sofa, rubbing his hands together in a nervous manner, as he usually did when he asked Leslie for an opinion.
“Yes,” Leslie said. “Very much.” He held the sketch closer to the light. “But there’s no date and you haven’t signed it.” He pulled out another drawing from the portfolio. “This one as well. When—“
“Give me time, love. I’ve just arrived home.”
Leslie shook his head to rid himself of the painful images. He turned back to the sketch. Careful not to smear the charcoal, he ran his fingers lightly over the moonlight glinting off the water. “I want to understand, Edward, but you have to help me. What are you trying to tell me?”
Edward didn’t answer him. How could he? Edward was dead.
“Goddamn it, Edward! You’re absolutely no help at all.”
- Writer
