Solitaire

I think I always liked the game because it sounded like my name combined with the concept of alone. (My name really does mean “alone” in Slovenian!) We don’t actually care if it’s true, but we want to know the person telling us is telling us the truth. Say his name is “Hank,” as in, “of hair.” (It’s not.) My upbringing was classically smooth/chaotic, apart from traumatic events I’ve never detailed, even to myself. Traumatic but methodical. But why say what happened even. In the tech block the blinds were down and I cleared my way to the final marble under the indistinct gaze of an indistinct master. My success had allowed me to become the bastard I always knew I could be. What did it mean, to clean the board like this, counting down to one? By these gradual and orderly subtractions my persona was configured. The goal was to remain single. Sometimes telling you the truth wouldn’t be telling you anything much. For a while I’ve felt torpid and detuned, as if I want to share a view with you, so we can both be absent in one place. Look, the sky is beautiful and sour. I’m not here, too. I’m staring out of this cloud like an anagram whose solution is probably itself. I am only the method that this stupid game was invented to explain.