My grandparents' tiny home was government property and was reclaimed.
The sanitary engineers, revolted, removed from the garden the
worm-infested, rotting relic and the putrid sheet concealing it.
The next day, it was hauled by sturdy garbage collectors into a truck
and, with assorted other junk, incinerated.
Language of Black and Red
by Sam Vaknin
Eli and I sit on ladder-backs next to a luxurious roulette in a casino
in Spain. I can almost pick glitters from the heavy, lowered
chandeliers. I can practically touch the shiny wooden wheel. I can see
the croupier's manicured nails. Lithe young bellhops, clad in
ornamental uniforms, place trays on gypsum pillars next to our chairs.
We fervently gulp the champagne from the tall, prismatic glasses and
nibble at the tiny sandwiches.
We are that lucky that we dare not leave the table, not even to relieve
ourselves.
Piles of shiny square chips represent our exceptional streak of
winnings. The table supervisor looks very anxious. He shifts restlessly
on his elevated seat, hawk-eyeing everyone malevolently. Sure enough,
he doesn't like us. He clears all other players, letting us bet in
splendid isolation, facing each other.
Eli's upper lip and temples glisten.
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