The Imitation Game
I seem to this man to be conversing, all nods to his eyebrows and his slurred Slavic complaints. I seem if you're watching to be taking dictation. He's been retired now twenty-three years, which leaves him somewhere over seventy. His son came home from the first day of work a long time ago with more money than his parents made together after years. But his son ran a bar and had to give it up because the government somethinged the something while I was writing. Now his son works the black market in Italy. His dog was born in the winter, which must mean something or I misunderstand. And I was born in the winter in Kashubia or I wouldn't look so sad, he says and he watches me, so I crack and I smile and he smiles. He offers me a smoke, but no thanks, no thanks, no really. An offered smoke accepted always leads to more swapped smokes and shared rounds, and I don't have that many years.