iii
Nestor sits at the head of the bed, watching the approaching twilight and wondering where the day’s gone. The sky’s a darker blue now, and the sun’s over by the horizon—where it should be—turning everything into a dusty rose—as it should be—and he soon forgets everything he was trying to remember. He looks at the three men in front of him, sitting at the foot of the bed, playing cards, and shakes his head. He doesn’t know if it’s disbelief or wonderment he feels; either way, it doesn’t make much of a difference, he tells himself. He watches Sid shuffling the deck before counting out the cards, as BJ and Moe rearrange the cards in their hands one card at a time.
“So why me?” Nestor asks, looking out at the sunset again. He can see himself as a reflection in the window, and sees his shirt fluttering in the gentle breeze. There are long, tight ringlets in his hair and for the life of him, he can’t remember it hanging to his shoulders before; or the cl…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Scribbler -- The Golden Years to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.