By Lon Otto
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Extra info for A nest of hooks
No one is there. Mrs. Garvey is in bed, it is two or three in the morning. j. Four days later the idea that he will perpetrate an homicide with a loaf of bread has not left him. His apartment is bakery full of bread: whole wheat, cracked wheat, rye, pumpernickel, many kinds of white. He squeezes a loaf of Wonder Bread between his hands. Mrs. Garvey next door is listening to one of an endless series of shrill daytime quiz shows. Her bird-like hands flutter up suddenly, there is a muffled cry, the plastic loaf molds itself to her face, she slumps onto the runner before her sofa.
Which was why he had said, sure, yes, I'll pick you up after work. What was why? What did she want? He turned back, brushing something, straw or something, from his coat sleeve. There had not been much progress. The farrier talked constantly and worked with an agonizing slowness. He clipped a ragged crescent from the front edge of a hoof and tossed it to the old, fat labrador that had been watching. As the dog grabbed the scrap and chewed at it, growling ecstatically, the Page 12 farrier leaned against the horse and explained why dogs like hoof parings so much, and told them about a collie he had had when he was a kid, who was scared to death of horses but would come cowering and cringing around when someone was shoeing.
It was about them getting married and then driving off very very far on their honeymoon, and then going to bed together for the first time, about their bodies lying very very close to each other, about him being very very gentle with her. She showed the story to me because I wrote stories, and this was her first story. I didn't know what to say about it, I just gave it back. I was embarrassed for her and just gave the piece of lined notebook paper back to her without saying anything. She was not a very good student; I imagine she read many romance magazines.
A nest of hooks by Lon Otto