Silence is a Two Year-Old

By A.M. Hemingway.

It’s Saturday evening and like most people who know shit I’m brooding for the umpteenth time.

I watch as artificial enlightenment gives these animals something to live for, and succumb to my own need to escape and fade into meaning. The music flooding my apartment is hollow and gives off the commercial ideology of money; power; women. I close my eyes and I’m back in college.

It’s junior year and my relationship is like the last leaf on a dying tree. We went from passionate lovers to passionate combatants and I feel this feeling like I’m getting fed up. Instead of looking forward to New York, I’m making plans to move out. We live together. We sleep alone.

There’s a heavy knock on the door and I’m back in my apartment in D.C. Without hesitation I open it to find the woman I left years ago. In her hand is the hand of a child.

“Ramona,” her name tastes new in my mouth and I’m reminded of the taste of her lips.

“Jay,” her voice is delicate and firm. I glance at the kid and come to my own conclusions.

“How old is she?” She confirms my suspicions.



A.M. Hemingway broods and writes. His work as appeared here, elsewhere, and in his head. His short story collection, A Ghost Hovers Where Time Shadows, both does and does not exist.