the smuggler’s bible


Caliban leaves his apartment and wanders down the street toward the park. Already he knows she will be angry.

“You’re late,” Myrna says. “Five more minutes and I would have left you.”

He shrugs. When they get to the field they take their shoes off and proceed barefoot. The grass is cool and damp and likely to stay that way under the clouds. They head into the copse and find their places kneeling before the deep pool.

“How can you be late every morning?” she asks.

Caliban—silent—thinks about moving a little bit closer, thinks about taking her hand.