CINDERS & BUGS

She was crying in line at the post office. Too close to me. Every time we moved forward a step or two, I hoped she would take the space to settle herself—or spread out her grief—but she pressed forward. I wondered how far my charade of deafness would stretch. Her tears came with words for her companion. A man who told her to be quiet; that they’d talk about it later.

She was persistent in her grief, which trembled with an anger that had, for the most part, been beaten out of her. Violence is a heat and it wafted from her like a house almost burned to the ground. Her words were cinders burning what was left standing.

We moved another few centimetres. And another step, together. She pressed her sobs into the back of my head and said that the man had been cruel talking about the bugs in her hair. The man shooshed her. She washed regularly, she said, and telling people she had bugs in her hair was a hurtful lie.

She was whimpering while I continued my deaf-man pantomime, perfected my performance as a bloke simply waiting in line, as though I wasn’t disgusted or afraid, but I could feel those bugs hopping up and down below my ears.