The Discomfort of Evening

by Lucas Rijneveld

I can imagine if you think about naked people for too long shoots grow out of you, just like potatoes sprout after a while so you have to dig them out of the soft flesh with the point of a knife.

but that he had to accept, because there was something wrong with the poor creature and he’d be saddled with it for good otherwise.

How he thinks his father views him

They were still too small to be used for anything other than holding stuff. They still fitted in my parents’ hands but Mum’s and Dad’s didn’t fit in mine. That was the difference between them and me

I learned that at first, death requires people to pay attention to small details – the way Mum checks her nails for dried-up bits of rennet from making cheese – to delay the pain.

so that I could be sure I didn’t forget the colour of his eyes, so that he wouldn’t forget me.

I said a quick prayer to God that he wouldn’t give me cancer from the cigarette smoke if I helped with the toad migration when I was old enough. ‘The

Nobody knows my heart. It’s hidden deep beneath my coat, my skin, my ribs. My heart was important for nine months inside my mother’s belly, but once I left the belly, everyone stopped caring whether it beat enough times per hour. No one worries when it stops or begins to beat fast, telling me there must be something wrong.

We never really live in the seasons as we’re always busy with the next one.

in the night everyone is ageless.

I don’t want to go to God but to myself.

a time will come when I will have to brave the ice again. The holes in the ice are now mainly inside our heads.

we are taught how to rescue people from under the ice, but above water we don’t know how to keep someone on dry land,

Lots of people want to run away, but the ones who really do rarely announce it beforehand: they just go.

I’m still alive, and that’s the only thing they pay attention to. That we get up every day, however slowly, is enough proof for them that we’re doing all right.

Anger has hinges that need oiling.

When someone stands or lies too close I get the feeling I have to admit something, that I have to justify my presence: