Hamsun

By Manheim Wagner

James stared at the blistered ceiling. He called the superintendent—water leaking from the apartment above. Gypsum particles littered their bed.

The late afternoon light stretched across the hardwood floor. He looked around the room, at her clothes and the photo of them together.

Her scent lingered. He sighed. She had been absent for a week—not a message on the answering machine.

“What would Knut Hamsun do?” James asked himself.

“Nothing,” he answered.

The superintendent knocked on the door. James led him into their bedroom. More murky water fell upon their bed, splashing their photo and James’s copy of Victoria.