Novel

An Anxiety of Life

The Kalashnikov wavered just off center of my chest. Where the soldier’s trigger finger was, I couldn’t tell in the blank second that the muzzle settled. The Zimbabwean Sarjeant wasn’t visibly angry, wasn’t pleased, he just “was” with a premonition of suspicion. Suspicion behind a blank stare.

He said, “the copier’s out of paper.” His stare was blank as he turned and went back to his office. I shook my head just a bit to see where I was, in an office doing my financial planning work.

“Why are you taking pictures of a military installation?” Now I see his finger. I see the shiny muscle tense in the hot African sun. He was now “is.” “Sorry but I wasn’t taking picture,” my SLR hanging down from the top of my backpack across my right chest.