Terry Thomas


	The House in the Hollow Terry Thomas The house in the hollow is empty. Nobody lives there— distorted lines meet in corners, greet the silence; rooms are filled with nothing, but something’s there. Played with her when we were children. Her dad rented from my dad (a sensible arrangement), and he worked when he could, but he was bad to her. Some days her eyes were cloudy, skin was blue—I knew. . . The house in the hollow is on hallowed ground. Could tear it down and plant something, may be crops, but I stop when I think of her, cloudy eyes and all. She smelled of soap and licorice— not candy (she never got that), but as extract to soften the blue of bruised skin. The house in the hollow is empty of the living. I own it now and will leave it to slow dissolve. I lose resolve for destruction when I spend an afternoon with the silence, and the smell of soap and licorice. Dining with the Dead There weren’t as many zombies from the woolen mill next door as usual. I was having my ritual cup of coffee and muffin, still puffin’ a bit from my five a.m. run, the diner a little warm for my heart rate. It was later than usual for me: I’d lain in bed a bit, feeling something pending, but finally got my end going. It was snowing lightly when I started (second favorite weather to fog), and I cut swaths through white paths, feeling energized by the light kisses on my cheek. Took a peek in the gray varicose- vein mirror and spotted her in the last booth. Mousy wasn’t the right word — maybe just lousy with fate, because she had a remnant of beauty, like the last leaf on a hollow tree. She was pressed against the far wall, face in shadow from the poster of a circus summers ago, faded as much as she was. She had coffee and toast, and she was heaping the dry husks with slabs of butter and mounds of jelly, building a sandwich to carry her through . . . to something. Her summer clothes were draped on her scarecrow frame, and you could almost hear her stomach gurgle when she put halves together and took her first bite. I watched carefully as she chewed, slowly, took another small bite, feeling the rhythm: bite, chew, inhale — sip of coffee (another spoon of sugar and dollop of cream). Seemed like this slow ritual would last forever, but she was finally done. She breathed deeply, dug deeper into her pockets, reached the register and pushed coins across the counter like burying dead relatives. I looked at the booth and saw a dime reflect the light of the sun struggling through the dirty window. She was at the door by then, shivered while she buttoned her light jacket to the top and stepped into the snowfall. She paused as if deciding on right or left. I swallowed my last sip of coffee, left half a muffin, patted the switchblade in my Velcro pocket, for muggers and such, and realized my morning exercise wasn’t done.