Head Like a Hole

by Andrew Van Wey

Her eyes have taken on a misty glaze, rife with nostalgia. He envisions this Arizona kitchen stretching and fraying and curving backward in time, transforming into some artist’s loft visible only to her. He can almost see the brickwork and paint. He can almost smell the incense and coffee. That’s the power of memory, he supposes. Every one is unique, carved into neurons and strengthened through emotions and senses. It’s why so many adults never move past the music of their youth. And it’s also his stock-in-trade. The little clues through which the truth can be triangulated, tracked down, and resurrected. Perhaps even punished. There is something here his listeners will devour. He can feel his mind pawing at them greedily.