The Specters of Algeria

Jing had to lower his head even though I was standing a step above him, and I was a little surprised, after our lips separated, to realize how tall he was.

He took my hand in his as we went out the door.

The bathroom faced the front door, slightly at an angle, so I could see Jing’s face, but I don’t remember the look on that face.

Jing asked in return.

then one day, he took down all the books from the shelves and piled them up in the yard, then poured kerosene on them and set them on fire

I don’t remember how long he’d been gone. It was quite long—I’d waited and waited and waited, and then waited some more— but I’m not sure if long was the time I spent waiting, or the feeling I had in my heart. Or were they the same

e; then, he returned one day out of nowhere.

At first he was afraid of books, then he was afraid of paper with words written on it; in the end, he grew afraid of paper itself.

It wasn’t because of the mold. Or maybe it was. If it wasn’t for the mold, he wouldn’t have paid attention to something like wallpaper, and wouldn’t even have realized that the walls had been papered in the first place.

The spreading grayish-black spot s