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But for now, you cannot stand it anymore and you need to leave. Getting a parting drink of water, you consider the vacant space above the man’s stove. It’s the splash space created by a husband’s rage. This man starting to uninstall his microwave while the family doctor’s voice was still hanging in the air. His wife was driving home then, diagnosed and broken. You dress by the bed. Arriving home splash from the doctor, did his wife ask him for love? Patience? Hot coffee? None of the above. She wanted to fuck, Olga wanted to splash fuck, he told you. And something about his tone told you he had no choice. Even if it was to make one afternoon pass. One afternoon. Spent on this bed you are picking up your socks from. The man holds the door open with one hand, a towel loose around his waist. Family photographs line the mantel. You, on the other hand, have none on yours; you have no stories to tell. You are tired of talking and explaining. You were tempted to give your camera to a street urchin outside Bombay airport.
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