Louis, luckless, was tormented from January to December of each year by Ellen, who was energetic and wise, with bright eyes and healthy hair, unafraid to speak her mind, unafraid to eat, unwilling to turn away from the glances that came her way as they walked up or down Carl Street S., unwilling to apologize for her refusal to turn away. He tried to exert control, and control was exactly what he called it, so as not to be misunderstood, but she only laughed and reminded him that he was nothing without her and that she might by all accounts be even greater without him. His last resort was to curse Carl Street S. and the men and women on it who demonstrated their appreciation for Ellen. Even here he found no luck: he kicked at a cardboard box in front of a bar called The Rogus only to discover that it was filled with bricks and that his shoe, fashionable enough, was too weak in the front to protect his toe, which cracked audibly. His howls of pain broadcast all the way down the block to Ellen, who was talking to a woman about her age, comparing ringlets.
©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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