Twist

by Colum McCann

to shore.

of searing heat and crackling storms.

not in cape town. don't get thunder storms

bungalow

not called this in South Africa

Some quick and darkening clouds hemmed it in, a roily grey. The heat was pouring down. A storm was more than a rumour now. The wind coming off the water smelled like wet metal.

a thunder storm in summer?

He stayed silent, then closed the door and stepped along the corridor. Few of the stories we have inside ourselves ever get properly spoken.

as if the tracks of his tomorrows were coming down the line and positioning themselves at his feet.

What? Dogs?

He was able to blink open the moment.

What?

As if he was wounded, as if he was on the run, as if he was in disguise: it was all bullshit, convenient to certainty, and I knew

What does this even mean

A tide wind had turned.

What

For a long time I didn’t want to think about any of it. I suppose we end up surviving by our ability to forget.’