Trotsky

Trotsky sat forward at the table perched like a starling, one fifth of his arse contacting the chair, absently eating his own face.

His visage permanently askew, lips puckered to the left then right as if air-kissing some imagined socialite, he had the habit of chewing the inside of his cheeks. He constantly rearranged his mouth’s interior, sometimes pushing with a distracted finger to give access to fresh grazing.

I imagined that I could hear the audible pop as another chunk of matter was bitten free. How long before he breaks through? Like a Château d’If prisoner patiently nibbling the cell wall with a spoon, anticipating that first glint of moonlight and freedom.

“What’s it got to do with you?” inquired Trotsky.

“Not much.” I conceded.

~ by mantecanaut on April 5, 2009.