So Death plays his little fucking trumpet. So what, says the boy.
+So Death plays his little fucking trumpet. So what, says the boy.
He didn’t have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing,top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vinebegging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese.
-He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imaginingit was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realizedit was a terrible metaphor.He practiced for six hours a day—what else to do?
-Death looks at himself in the mirror as he plays.The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules.Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shavingbut he’ll never know unless a stranger is polite enough.Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone.
-He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later.He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggysince he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two.The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke.He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there,
-there’s only a little boy with dead eyes. So far so good.He’s playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past himand watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid’s good.Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand.
+He didn’t have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thinguntil it gleamed like a tomato on the vine that was beggingto be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese.
+He stood up to put the horn to his lips, trying to imagineit was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized how badthe metaphor was. He practiced anyway for six hours a dayin front of the mirror—what else to do with all the time?
+Death looked at himself in the mirror as he played, the trumpetsuspended in midair. Damn vampire rules, he thought.He was always worried he might have missed a spot while shavingbut he’d never know unless a stranger—he had no friends—was kind enough. Not that he goes out anyway or meets people.
+He started waking up late, staying in bed later.He started thinking he was depressed. He never did eatthat caprese, and it started getting soggy, green spotsspreading on the mozzarella like bedsores. The sunfiltered through the kitchen blinds like smoke. He hadto get out of the house. He decided to go to the arcade.
+When he got there, it was empty except for a boywith dead eyes. So far so good, Death thought.He was playing a first-person shooter, something violent.Death walked past him and watched out of the cornerof his eye. The kid was good. Death decidedto congratulate him. He had his trumpet in his hand.