Winter 2005 • Vol. XXVII No. 1 FictionJanuary 1, 2005 |

The Pigeon

You ask me: what is life? That is like asking: what is a carrot? A carrot is a carrot and that's all there is to it —Anton Chekhov He wakes up at 6:17 A.M. because of the pressure on his bladder and reaches under the bed for the pot. He sits on the edge of the bed and raises the hem of his nightshirt and pisses without standing up—like an old, sick man, he thinks. This summer they would install a proper lavatory, one that flushed, and they would build the guest house for the men to sleep in: the women could stay in the main house. How civilized. He dresses, pulling on the clothes he discarded on the floor the previous night. Sometimes an old shirt is more comfortable than a fresh, new one, he thinks. We're like animals, we prefer our own familiar smells. He stands in front of the looking glass and runs a comb through his hair and his beard. His hair seems to be thinning and he wonders for a moment if that could be a new symptom of his illness. The thought of becomin

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You ask me: what is life? That is like asking: what is a carrot? A carrot is a carrot and that's all there is to it —Anton Chekhov He wakes […]

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