Glass Bottom

Evg watched the midsummer sun through a bank of yellow-green fog that hovered over the ice, about a nautical mile out he guessed. It was almost midnight. It was warm. The onshore breeze picked up waves from the shimmering edge of the ice pack and splashed them onto the scaly gravel at his feet. Leathery leaves on a lone stick of willow trembled. Should he be naked? He decided not. Too film-school, too sixties. He still feels the tug of an art house audience hungry for abstraction and skin. It’s old skin now, he thinks, his mind rising to the surface it sees in mirrors. No no. Faded Levi’s, a white T and Converse, red ones, still a classic look.