Ingrid Catching Snowflakes on Her Tongue (#3)

More Lisa Moore, also from Degrees of Nakedness.

Reminded again how the best short stories are small, big meaning and emotion in tiny moments.  Moore’s writing is such… lush sparseness.

A whole entire plot in one paragraph:

For some reason she started seeing Marcel, Gabriel’s father, again when Gabe was five.  He stayed a month.  It ended when he took a swing at her. He’s a small guy and he was drunk.  She hit him back and he fell onto his bum, his legs straight in front of him, his toes pointing toward the ceiling, his palms flat on the floor — like a kid at the beach, she said, sitting at the edge of the sea.  She knocked his glasses off and he blinked, slightly sobered.

There’s a sense of movement in this story that’s like the breathing of a fish, water flowing in and out of gills in languid rhythm. The first person character separate, then of, then separate again, with the Ingrid she is writing about.  Living under the same roof with someone else shapes you both, the way liquid takes the shape of its container.

 

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