He set
it down then, on the railing, balancing it carefully.
He took one step back, then a second, so that he was almost at the
door. They stared at each other and then he took one, two running steps,
like a soccer player winding up for a penalty kick, and then he unwound,
leg flying straight up, tip of his toe catching the wine glass so that
it hurtled straight for Alan's forehead, moving like a bullet.
Alan flinched and the glass hit the brick wall behind him,
disintegrating into a mist of glass fragments that rained down on his
hair, down his collar, across the side of his face, in his ear. Krishna
ticked a one-fingered salute off his forehead, wheeled, and went back
into his house.
The taste of blood was in Alan's mouth. More blood coursed down his neck
from a nick in his ear, and all around him on the porch, the glitter of
crystal.
He went inside to get a broom, but before he could clean up, he sat down
for a moment on the sofa to catch his breath. He fell instantly asleep
on the creaking horsehide, and when he woke again, it was dark and
raining and someone else had cleaned up his porch.
#
The mountain path had grown over with weeds and thistles and condoms and
cans and inexplicable maxi-pads and doll parts.
She clung to his hand as he pushed through it, stepping in brackish
puddles and tripping in sink holes.
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