Wondering if my body’s changing on the inside, or maybe that’s me paying more attention to what’s there. Starting when I was a brat, but growing especially the last few years. At night a voice, I think. Yelling from somewhere inside me, like I’m a house with many rooms. Rooms that store a terrible power.
“Džeko.” I turn around. My hands are half-submerged in the sink. “Did you know that I used to work for the government?”
I glance down at my clothes, the pyjama bottoms I sleep in, at my hoodie with the stains on it thrown over the chair. Wondering who I’m going to be in twenty years. Five. A coldness grips me no matter that the heaters are on, my hands in lukewarm dishwater.
He sits at the kitchen table with his head bowed. Darkly, my darkling, quiet. Solemn, my stoic man. My Seneca.
