The card is in my pocket

The card is in my pocket. That is the first thing I have to say and it has been the first thing in my pocket all day. I walked ten metres with my bleeding right hand and took it out of a camera that was not mine. I read that sentence. I do not feel guilty yet. I am good at delaying guilt until it is convenient.

I hit a man with the hook today. I need to write that down before I forget the shape of it. A man grabbed my bleeding wrist at the bowser and I broke his grip with the tool I carry for pinning scorpions. That is the sentence. I read it back. I am not sure what I think. I know what my hand thinks. The hand is twice its size and it is not interested in my opinion.

Pieter has not called. He is the kind of man who calls. The fact that he has not called means he either does not know yet, or he knows and is being careful, or he knows and he is finished with me. I have known Pieter for four years. If he is finished he will not say so. He will just stop sending. I would prefer the third option. The third option is cleaner.

Oom Karel's gate opens first light. I am taking the female out. I have been hovering at her glass for a week telling myself it is the humidity. Tomorrow I open the red bag and put her down in the dirt and drive home without her. I do not know what that will leave me with. Something emptier probably.

The form is still on the bedside table. I looked at it when I came in. It is starting to blend in. That is the skill I have.