Pictures

I do not want a photograph. My eyes are more powerful than any device. You do not need my words.

When Helga left that morning, she left her picture of the table. In it she posed expressionless before mountains on a rainy day. When I found it, I burned it. There were no digital copies--I do not allow those dome-a-dozen memories.

I cannot forget how she left that night in the freezing rain. I hated her for leaving but adored her rugged beauty. Dressed in her 66 North Laugavegur Women's Down Jacket and Kaldi Arctic Hat, she was a brainwashed innocent. For the first time in my life, I wanted to apologize, but because she was gone, I drank myself stupid and watched shitty daytime chat shows. I cried and decided to grow a beard.

The rain glued to her long blonde hair. I knew she could not keep her face warm.

Now: I am smoking a cigarette in a cheap motel. I have a beard--it hides my rosy cheeks. When I knock upon the door, she'll see the suffering in every grey. But can a hero look like this?

I miss her and the way she put whisky in my coffee and Hennessy in my stew. Without her, drunkenness is empty.