TE20 Migrant Mosaics

Ben Sloan

below his right eye made her think…well she wasn’t sure. It just made her think…well, she wanted to tell him that his facial hair is pretty. She stood before her building’s doorway. Not one of those old buildings that the tourists take photos of. Look! The Austro- Hungarian Empire. B-e-a-utiful. Take a picture with me in front of it, hunny. No no. Built in the 1960s. A brutalist, grey bombed out looking building. No excess. Save save save money. Rebuild the economy. Don’t waste money on homes with faces on them and balconies made of porcelain, practically. She looked back at the man painting the façade. She wondered if he would have told her that going to this cabin where her uncle and mother grew up, where her mother killed herself, was a good decision. Would he tell me that it would help with the process? Clad in a white painters jumpsuit, he looked almost like he was preparing for an Apollo mission to the moon. He opened up his pack of cigarettes, grabbed at his crotch quickly, then took one cigarette and lit it. She opened up the entrance to her apartment building and imagined: the man painting was laying in her bed. She stroked his face and ran her finger across his scar. The scar was not from shaving. She laid on his chest and could feel his neck hairs, long, too long, brushing up against her forehead. I’m going to try to find my mother’s house. He angled his head downwards, looking down at her. By then, after muttering this comment, rather an admission of lunacy, she scooted down towards his ribs so she could gauge his response better. Ok. Yeah, good. He then lit a cigarette inside. Inside her room, with all the windows closed! 222