Still Life by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Still Life
Page 4
Finn Portello, also known to some as Huckleberry, and to fewer as a man of consequence, lies curled on a Chippendale couch, its mahogany frame carved with acanthus leaves and lion's paws. The upholstery; faded damask, bears the ghost of many naps. The Hepplewhite Pembroke table still sits askew from its traditional position at couch end to somewhere near the middle, where it serves as a repository for Finn’s Acer laptop, which is open yet dark, straining for the magic finger touch which will once again bring its light.
A grandfather clock ticks with the solemnity of a monk, its pendulum swinging like a slow heartbeat.
Books are everywhere, stacked on the floor, wedged into shelves, piled on the mantle. Titles range from Enlightenment treatises, to secret societies, to obscure pamphlets on cider fermentation; but most are the classics; “Moby Dick,” “The Great Gatsby,”
“Malone Dies,” “Ada or Ardor; a Family Chronicle,” et al.
A brass oil lamp flickers beside him, casting shadows that dance like colonial gossip.
His boots rest by the hearth, dusted with trail dirt and pine needles. A half eaten apple sits on a pewter plate, forgotten mid-thought.