Skip to content

Genji

She’s captured her dreams in a Mason jar, boiled and sealed. When Genji holds it up to the lamp she can just make out shapes: distortions, birdlike, beating against the glass.

“I can give you seventy dollars,” says Genji, and the woman across the counter tightens.

“You can’t do eighty,” she says, unable to make it a question.

“Seventy,” says Genji, as gently as she can.

They trade. Genji opens a low cabinet to stack it with the others.

“I’ve got thirty days,” says the woman, “to buy it back?”

“That’s right,” says Genji, but they never do, they never do.

Attribution-Share Alike 3.0
This work is licensed under a Attribution-Share Alike 3.0.