"Shall I wipe it off?" - I enquired meekly.
"Now, I don't even have a snail" - tears blended with startling
exhalations - "You will be gone, too! I thought we could fight the
world, you and I, that we are invincible. But it is not like that at
all! We can't even look after one snail together!"
"Are you mad at me?" - I asked and she snorted, part pain and part
contempt. She scooped the shattered snail with a paper towel and dumped
both in the overflowing trash bin. She froze like that awhile and then,
as if reaching a decision, she deposited the box, replete with lettuce
leaves, in the garbage can.
"I don't think I am going to need it. I am never going to have another
snail" - she paused - "At least not with you."
Write Me a Letter
by Sam Vaknin
He looks at me with his single surviving eye and pleads: "Write me a
letter."
I smile and remove the women's magazine from his hands. Under "Singles
Ads" it says:
"165/33, feminine, rebellious, striking, looking for a man for serious
relationship, Postal Box Office."
"Write me a letter" - he repeats and his lonely eye gleams.
"Soon, I am going to get my second, more beautiful one" - he adds
apologetically.
We are in a residential caravan in a prison camp, whiling the time
away.
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