Awarded the Editor's Prize in Fiction
Mister Perris
by Finn Kraemer
"Have you talked to her?"
"No."
"Don't not talk to her. Say things, Jonah. Say things you're afraid to say. Don't
keep anything in. Don't ever stop talking. There is nothing inside of you to be ashamed of."
The TV droned. Jonah didn't want to argue with her. She was dying by increments.
~
Jonah came in the front door and set down his backpack. The grandfather clock
ticked steadily on the left wall. He took off his shoes and walked over the rug into the kitchen. There was orange juice, milk, and leftover macaroni-and-cheese in the fridge next to the bottles of pills and cold packs. He poured himself a glass of milk and walked in sock feet back into the living room. He settled in the big armchair and stared at the wall for a moment. It was a cream color. There was a painting of a big flower hanging on the wall. It was of a rose and the rose hung sideways over something black, a background that looked like oil, deep black, ready to flow and glint and whisper thickly at him.
~
Jonah didn't notice her until halfway through the semester. He always scanned the classes for girls during the first weeks, looking for prospects, but somehow he missed her. She must have been there, how could he have not noticed her? She was a big girl. She had short streaked blonde hair. She had a beautiful face. She had curves.
It was a Monday/Wednesday/Friday class so he saw her three times a week. She always sat in the same row. He moved so he could see her. She always came in late so he tried to get there early, racing back from work on his bike so he could see her come in.