There was so much that Germain expected from his day. A woodpecker spied over the crest of a hill. A corrupt politician upbraided. A new machine brought to the door by a salesman and demonstrated, touch this button for a puff of farm air, this other one for the sound of a cow lowing. A letter from Papa. He woke with his eyes bright. And then, ten hours later, having received none of it at all, he trudged back to bed, ran a finger along the blades of his shins, and by legerdemain talked himself into looking forward to the foreordained dawn.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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