8/12/15 Dead Fingers

She took it and rubbed her dead fingers on it. The dirt under her fingernails was dark, but her hands themselves were clean. Nothing changed about the handbill at all. She handed it back to Theo. When he took it he felt a shift. It was at the back of his mind, or in the smallest sliver of his vision. It was like the first time he’d learned to taxidermy, or the first roll of film he’d ever developed. It was gears turning out of sight, gears that opened stone doors that were previously locked. Doors that Theo knew led to a larger world. It was an unlocking of possibilities he’d never understood. It was the reason he lived and the reason people died and the secret behind his photography.

The dead woman turned, and Theo turned. In the spot on Tudor Street where a Billabong store had just been, was a large dilapidated theater. White, but now gray with age, not even the slat shutters had escaped the inevitable creep of time–some slats were broken or missing altogether. There was no sign, no signal, no reason he should enter, but Theo was a mystic if mystics were right, which they weren’t, but Theo was, and he knew some things others didn’t. This theater was one of those things, and he knew this also. And with this in mind he walked with the dead woman, her shuffling feet, his dress shoes clipping, up the ten or so stairs to the double doors which would enter to a place he wanted to go.

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