by Mi-Yashar Seyedbagheri
The pianist drives, blowing smoke-rings through his mouth, joint in his right hand, when he hits her. She’s in the street, model train-set in her hands. Cat-eye frames shattered.
There’s no one around. He can slip away.
She likely has children, though, waiting to tell her about their day at school. The pianist pictures explaining that Mother’s in a distant place, to a child. A child who sees the world as an irrelevant stranger.
Like he once did.
The moon casts deep shadows over the woman. He turns on the radio, extinguishing the joint, shaking, alone. Like that woman’s child.