old as Duncan anyway.
Suddenly, I realized how tired and grimy I felt
from hours and hours of cleaning the studio. I needed
a good shower, perhaps not so much because of all the
work as because of the frustration I was feeling. There
was something about warm water pounding down
over my head and shoulders that was reviving.
Afterward, I wrapped a towel around myself, then scrubbed my hair dry with another towel. I know I was muttering to myself aloud the whole time. Anyone who heard me would surely think I had gone mad. When I stepped out of the bathroom and walked
back to my bedroom, I nearly jumped out of my skin There he was, sitting at my small desk, leaning
over and staring down at the floor.
"Damn!" I screamed. "You frightened me, Duncan.
"I'm sorry," he said and slowly raised his head.
The sight of me wrapped only in a big bath towel
seized his full attention, but I didn't think about it. 1
was more angry now than anything.
"Why did you run out of here like a lunatic?" I
said. He didn't respond. "It wasn't very nice to act like
that. You're like a firecracker sometimes. I'm afraid to
walk too fast around you, much less say anything.
Well? Why did you run off?"
"I was afraid to stay any longer," he said,
looking out the window.
"Why?"
"I was just afraid."
"You're not making any sense, Duncan. What
were you afraid of? Me?"
"Not you so much as myself."
I stared at him a moment. What was he telling
me? Was he capable of harming someone? Had he? I
didn't recall anything in his poetry that suggested it. "Can you explain that, please?"