by Petr Hruška
They had already sat down on the bed. Then the man remembered the back door was still open. He groped along the hallway, past the dark holes of workshops and spaces. Past the dark holes of sleeves on the communal coat stand. The house was wide open, pulled inside out.
His hand on the latch, he saw the last stretch of snow by the hazel bushes under the roof. It lay there white and large, like an animal with its head raised, like a bared shoulder. Like, when all is said and done, several things in life. It lay there white and incongruous, by the backyard door.
He groped his way back, slowly and quietly, in case his wife was already asleep.
Last updated September 19, 2022