Argonaut by Guy Yasko

The closing door chokes off the roar of the party. Interesting. He tries it again. Same effect. He can see his breath in the bedroom. He pulls his sleeves down and considers crawling under the pile of coats on the bed. — Drunk, drunker than i thought. Boots where are my boots? He sits on the bed and tries to remember. His eyes spin upward to the bookshelf. A code: The gift triste-tropiques suicide distinction homo academicus the postcard. His coat sleeve beckons from the pile and triggers memories of his boots. Out on the street, hands thrust deep into pocket and collar turned up against the wind, he announces: — Dilettantes. Derrida for dilettantes. The judgment promises to echo off the brick, but dies in the cold. There is only the crunch of cinders under boots.

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