By night, dim streetlight trickling in. The khaki of river mud. The tricycle with its rainbow coloured appliques, its wooden panels and wheels, sunken. Like nothing inherited, no known or secondhand known toy, but evocative of them.
So no surprise when I find him stretched out on our couch. Elbows up, technician's fingers interlaced back of his skull. Hair dark as his forties, drawn into ponytail. The pooled light on his glasses obscuring his eyes. He pretends to not understand my anger. Not smiling.
He pretends to not understand. But he sees its radiance in me. A fury like hot asphalt, warping the air between us. It flares, swells and distorts as I turn, my voice an eruption. The accusation of abuse sliding off his pretense of ignorance, for but a second, as I pile it on.
I won't let him not hear. I cannot let him pretend any longer. He knew. He always knew. The living room feels smaller. Or is it the heightened pulse of emotion that's reduced my surroundings. The man on the couch, on the defensive, stony indifference downshifting to fear as he notices my balled fists.
No water beneath that bridge. There was once. That childhood belonged to another.
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