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Then Audrey.
I pick it up and hold it in my hand.
I wish I could hold up that knife and tear open the world. I'd slice it open and climb through to the next one.
In bed, I cling to that thought.
There are three cards in my drawer and one in my hand.
As sleep stands above me, I gently press my finger to the edge of the Ace of Hearts. The card is cool and sharp.
I hear a clock ticking.
Everything watches impatiently.
Name: David Sanchez.
Also known as: Ritchie.
Age: Twenty.
Occupation: None.
Achievements: None.
Ambitions: None.
Likelihood of ever attaining answers to the previous three questions: None.
The next time I go to Ritchie's house on Bridge Street, I find the place completely dark. I almost leave, until the light jumpstarts on in the kitchen. It flicks and dies several times before forcing itself alive.
A silhouette arrives and sits at the kitchen table. It's Ritchie for sure. I can tell by the shape of the hair and the way he moves and sits down.
When I move closer I discover he's listening to the radio. It's mostly talkback, with a few songs thrown in. Faintly, I hear it.
I hide myself as close as I can without being caught out and listen.
The voices from the radio blur and reach out. Words like arms that land and rest heavily on Ritchie's shoulders.
I imagine the whole scene of the kitchen.
A toaster with crumbs around it.
Half-dirty oven.
White but fading Laminex.
The red, plastic-covered chairs with holes picked in them.
Cheap lino floor.
And Ritchie.
I try to imagine his face as he sits there, listening. I remember Christmas Eve and Ritchie's words. I don't feel like going home tonight. I see the eyes that dragged themselves toward me, and I see now that anything would be better than sitting alone in his kitchen.
With Ritchie, it's always hard to imagine a pained look on his face because of his relaxed manner. I saw a glimpse that Christmas Eve, though, and I revisit it again now.
I also imagine his hands.
