Excerpt from a short-story

"We never told the truth for ten minutes in this house."
Biff Loman, from Death of a Salesman, Act 2

    The faint light from the hotel bar danced carelessly on the surface of the pool in the center of the resort property. Mickey was entranced by the patterned randomness of the lights movement amidst the low din of bar chatter flowing from the patrons on the veranda. He thought he heard jazz being played from somewhere in the lounge– maybe Brubeck?– competing with an occasional laugh or glass being raised and set down again in an endless cycle. Ice rattled and a youngish women spoke loudly as if she were sitting right next to him. And then Tom spoke.

    "I'd like to smoke. I'll smoke and you listen. Will you do that Mickey? Will you simply listen?"

    Mickey refocused his eyes and thoughts upon the man sitting in the patio recliner directly in front of him. He was much older. Had it been 20 years or more? He was heavier as well like an ex-prize fighter who hadn't been in a ring in years. His posture gave the appearance of being relaxed but the feverish intensity dancing in his eyes betrayed him. Mickey obliged Tom's request and simply responded with a slight nod of the head. Yes, I will listen.

    As Tom began to give expression to his heart he suddenly experienced something akin to extreme pain. Words formed with great labor and he chose his words wisely.

    Mickey sat still with his eyes carefully fixed upon the other mans face. A drowning man with no way of rescuing him. His chin, did it quiver? Is he angry or on the brink of destruction?

    The words came forth from Tom's mouth.

    "Why did you leave Mickey? Why did you leave?"


Read the second excerpt