![]() He stank of fish guts, the manure of the fields, the petroleum fog of the river. A man could starve on the edge of a dry riverbed. ![]() He presses himself against me, and I let him. When a regular puts a tenner in my hand as he leaves without asking for the kerosene, I slide the bill into my pocket and offer the smile he expects in return. They say they need it for their lamps and space heaters, and I let them lie they say they come to laugh about God and the changing world, which never, not for a second, seems odd. ![]() They said it was happening everywhere, but I’d never been to everywhere. ![]() One year it didn’t rain in the mountains at all, so the river itself dried to a trickle. The fish in the river were already disappearing. When I became a kerosene man myself, it came back naturally enough, but by then it was too late. Passed from family to family, I didn’t smile for a decade. When I was ten, the river left my parents tangled in a tree. I’m sure they thought I didn’t know, but I’d seen my face in the water. It wrinkled up the skin around our eyes, releasing chemicals in their brains. It was his smile, our smile-because I was a little version of him. There were other fueling points, but a few of the men bought only from my father. Two-gallon canisters of kerosene for their outboards, ten dollars each. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |