— Sandip Bhattacharya
Today I am the slack-jawed man in the comfortable chair; the jowly man with the face of a Bosc pear: overripe, mottled, sagging almost to the point of melting into a pool of puddling petulance. I have on my ill-fitting windcheater of an indeterminate blue: the color of the sky when it is still undecided about raining. I stand up to reveal that I have on shorts; they hang low, having lost the battle of the bulge; they give way to hairy legs that end in size thirteen shoes, wide and white and squashed on the inside heels. I wander in the aisles between tall bookshelves, between adult fiction and autobiography, looking for something -perhaps the book clutched under my arm or the glasses pushed up on my head; perhaps my long gone wife; perhaps some promised happiness.