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January 1 (Patterns)


Actaeon

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In dark room above a dark shop, a man wakes with a start. Down the street, someone has set off an illicit firework. Next door, sounds of revelry intrude upon the solitude of a cramped studio apartment. This is what woke him, but they are not what keeps him awake.

 

"Denver." He breaths the word like a curse.

 

As he sighs and shuffles off toward the bath room, the everlasting hum of the city pursues him. He turns on the shower, runs the water until it achieves its maximum lukewarm potential, and curls up in the corner.

 

***

 

The water is still warm an hour later, when he wakes a second time. It's one of the perks of sharing a building with a barbershop, he reflects as the phone rings a second time. Wrapping himself in a towel, he picks his way among empty pizza boxes and chinese food containers toward the telephone- an old fashioned rotary affair set unceremoniously on the floor near the front door. His teeth chatter as he picks up the receiver.

 

"Hello?"

 

"Speaking."

 

"Yes, that Elliot Holt."

 

"Dead? How?"

 

"I see."

 

"When?"

 

"I'll be there."

 

He hangs up the phone and glances around his dingy quarters. A twin mattress in the corner by the window, a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, a rickety desk barely supporting his gramophone and typewriter, and a half empty trunk in the corner. Not much to pack, but a very amount of straightening up to do before he can, in good conscience, surrender it to the landlord. He peers into the trunk. Moth-eaten slacks, frayed button downs, and a few odds and ends peer back at him. Not the sort of thing you can wear to a funeral.

 

The last train leaves at 7pm- assuming Amtrak runs on New Years- which gives him plenty of time to pack, clean, and update his wardrobe. He crosses to the window and pulls back the shade. Below, East Colfax Avenue hosts a steady traffic of drunk drivers. He cranes his neck, trying to see west out of a north facing window. There, just visible, a line of darker blue leans against the horizon: the Rocky Mountains, or at least the foothills.

 

He stands there for long while. There, somewhere beyond those peaks, his past is waiting. Or is it his future?

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