The Perfect Handshake
The cables may have been misconnected. Could blow the power amplifier. He says. Then a handshake, firm. It is memorable. A perfect handshake, caressing and embracing. He gets me.…

I called, apologised for the delay, said that violent crime had increased, it was the season. The person called insisted on their innocence. The voice slightly hoarse, almost childlike. The person expressed concern (empathetically) and wanted to know more about the victim. I said the scratches were nasty, that my stomach had been upset by the photographic evidence. The wife was certainly guilty. Whatever she said. But all this was confidential, I stressed. The person understood, apparently knew all about confidentiality.
The cables may have been misconnected. Could blow the power amplifier. He says. Then a handshake, firm. It is memorable. A perfect handshake, caressing and embracing. He gets me.…
I could spend whole evenings simply absorbing the sounds of the house. Drawing them in to myself, for I had no television in those days. At times I felt like a secret agent. Then I…
Could I retell myself in the same way as in a novel, toss out a few red threads through the generations and weave my movements into a story? An attempt was made: and you called me…