My Own Voice by Uvi Poznansky

Author:Uvi Poznansky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction & Literature
Published: 2015-08-15T16:00:00+00:00

I can’t remember how he took me to bed. By the time I got up this morning, Lenny was already gone.

So now, it’s a new day.

I go out to the balcony, listening for echoes from last night, like, echoes of me and Lenny. First I try to Rewind, Play. Then I Stop, and try instead to bring them voices out of memory. I prick up my ears for anything, any little thing that’s still here, still left from that charm, that moment of pure calm—but no: all’s quiet, quiet in the most regular, humdrum way, with a distant buzz of street noises.

It’s late in the morning, which you can tell, ‘cause the dew on the railing has dried up by now. His desk is bare, not even a pen left here, on the glass surface. And on the floor, a film of dust has already covered our footprints, so it’s awful hard to believe that last night really happened, that it wasn’t just another dream.

His notebook is nowhere in sight—but then, under his desk, right there in the trashcan, I can see a bunch of papers peeking out over the edge. I take them out, and smooth the edges, and try to flatten the creases, and blot out the ink stains.

According to him, only one of his stories was published, like, ages ago. The rest of them wasn’t, on account of the fact that Lenny don’t send them to no magazine editors, because, he says, he isn’t quite finished improving a phrase here and there, and besides, most of them stories, they’re just too private. So the more he tells you, the more he seems to leave something out.

Here, look: the first page is kinda messy. It’s that story, the one he managed to publish, the one he read for me last night. Me, I can barely recall what it is I’ve heard. I think it’s about a girl, a girl with blond streaks in her hair. Lana.

To win her over, a man can be seduced to do just about anything, and like, give up the one thing about himself which he values the most. Now as far as Lenny goes, I’m way too easy, which means, this girl isn’t me. And for sure, she isn’t Natasha.

Not long ago Lenny told me, “My writing is not the place where the fiction is,” which I find strange, ‘cause if not in his stories—then, where else can his fiction be? Is he writing the truth—and living a falsehood? If this is so, then the girl from his story must be real. More real than me, anyway.

Whoever she is, she must be someone he’d known way back in the past. I don’t think he’s seeing her now. I really don’t.

Then again, I may be totally wrong: perhaps the only place where she exists is like, on paper, which explains why he didn’t barely give her a strong, clear voice. To me, she seems a bit sketchy. In six pages of dense scribbles, the

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