Magen Toole

“Elliot,” Noam repeats. “My name is Noam. Noam Patel.” He smiles without realizing.

I picture you underwater whenever I close my eyes, or as an acrobat in the Technicolor big top of my mind.

The sight made Elliot’s thoughts melt into the static of the evening news on the television in the next room, and of the day he said nothing else.

In his best moments Elliot is an accident waiting to happen.