He begins to weave in slow circles. He gags
and spits blood. His gun arm starts to sag.
Kim slowly lowers his gun in both hands,
face impassive, eyes watchful.
Mike’s eyes are glazed, unbelieving, stub-
born, still trying to get the gun up for the
second shot. But the gun is heavy, too heavy
to lift, pulling him down.
Slowly Kim lowers his gun into the holster.
Mike crumples sideways and falls.
Kim looks up at the trees, watching a
squirrel, a remote antique gaiety suffuses his
face, molding his lips into the ambiguous
marble smile of a Greek youth.
Definitely an archaic from Skyros with
that special Skyros smile.
Who is the Greek youth smiling at? He is
smiling at his own archaic smile.
For this is the smile that happens when
the smiler becomes the smile.
The wind is rising. Kim watches a dead
leaf spiral up into the sky.