Through the Window

The rider, whose old age showed in the lines on his face, whose young vitality burst through the pink of his skin, sat astride his horse. He gazed through a window at a painting, a work that hung above a fireplace, a portrait that shone with his own image. The rider tasted salt and realized that he shed tears, tears that recalled those of Jesus. Sitting at a table that gleamed, shuffling through papers that crackled, ten people shouted and pointed toward six other paintings on the walls. Paintings of children dressed in rags. In each, behind the children, loomed a middle-aged peroxide blonde in a black silk pants suit. The center of the table held a golden box. One could open it by pulling on its handle, which was shaped like a sword, tip down, hilt up, but no one did. At the head of the table sat a man who failed to grasp what the box contained. The rider gazed at the box, then at the man at the head of the table, who looked away. As the sun warmed his skin, as the fire popped its last, the rider winked. And rode off.