The Passport

THE LOVE BITE

Amalie stands in the doorway. There are red spots on the slivers of glass. Windisch’s blood is redder than Amalie’s dress.

The last breath of Irish Spring hangs on Amalie’s calves. The love bite on Amalie’s neck is redder than her dress. Amalie pulls off her white sandals. “Come and eat,” says Windisch’s wife.

The soup is steaming. Amalie sits in its fog. She holds the spoon with her red fingertips. She looks at the soup. The steam moves her lips. She blows. Sighing, Windisch’s wife sits down in the grey cloud that rises from her plate.

The leaves on the trees rustle through the windows. “They’re blowing into the yard,” thinks Windisch. “There are enough leaves for ten trees blowing into the yard.”

Windisch looks past Amalie’s ear. It’s part of what he can see. Reddish and creased like an eyelid.

Windisch swallows a soft white noodle. It sticks in his throat. Windisch puts his spoon on the table and coughs. His eyes fill with water.

Windisch brings up the soup into his plate. His mouth tastes sour. It rises to his brow. The soup in Windisch’s plate is cloudy from the vomit.

Windisch can see a large courtyard in the soup. It’s a summer evening in the courtyard.