What season was it when the Dead Man died? Do we even know? The sky at the time was pool water blue and he wore a hoodie with writing on it but we are too far away to see what it says. Too birds-eye. Or just inattentive. The hoodie added weight when he was in the water, hugged and smothered him as he struggled. A convenient yet unexplained narrative device.

It is always hot where the Dead Man lived. His father is always dozing on the couch with the fan pointed at him, tired from work, his mother always cleaning around the space her husband occupies, dusting and vacuuming, polishing. Hoping he will be annoyed into action. As she cleans, she grumbles and speaks to herself, sometimes so loudly that her husband says: Huh? It is always hot, which is why the Dead Man would sleep on the balcony some nights. Mattress rolled out under clothes hanging from the line. Woken at dawn by birds and also by his father, drinking tea and having his first cigarette in the cool morning air before he leaves. Maybe it is late Spring or early Autumn. The Dead Man slowly wakes by leaning on the balcony railing and watching the cats in the alley below.

What did you do in private, Dead Man? The same thing as us, I suppose. We don’t worry about who we are. We worry about other things, but not that. Do we? Maybe briefly, in quiet moments. A few seconds of reverie which we do our best to dodge, like a snake in our path.

…

Tristan Foster is a writer from Sydney, Australia. He is the author of three books: the short story collection Letter to the Author of the Letter to the Father, 926 Years with Kyle Coma-Thompson and Midnight Grotesques with Michelle Lynn Dyrness.