It begins. It ends. The story goes on. Footsteps on the ceiling, toilet flush, water rinse, softer not-fast feet take time now that the rush is over, there’s room for words and maybe a laugh (he never laughs, but they do). A crunch. Munchy-crunchy. Fun. He must have it — women in a steady stream says stud, right? They spend the night once or twice, seem sated, smile in the elevator next-day. He must have it. Yes. But the story has another side, an aside, something in the margin: the crashing lasts but a paragraph, sometimes two if the writer is good, mark the start and mark the finish and then the toilet and the water and the softer feet another paragraph another night another woman smashing the headboard into sentences that end all too soon measuring exposition and completion line-by-line as that steady stream is suddenly understood.
From I Can See You — A Collection of Neighbors.
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G Beckman 