We sleep
beside each other until he wakes and lights up a cigarette. The scent of
tobacco floods a scene which frames him, my younger sister and me. The location
is my childhood home. My daughter is asleep nearby. He is smoking and I ask him
extinguish the cigarette, or go outside, in response to which he turns to my
sister asking: should I go outside?
From this gesture, the fluid substitution of authority, or else a substitution
of confidence, I can tell he has yielded to her seduction. Before she can answer
him I fly into a violent rage, I heave him across the threshold out of the
house, maniacally exhorting him to get out in some sort of paroxysm that
expresses my crushing sense of being totally undermined. Too close, too close.
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