the ape artist


I have new names. People call me the Ape Artist. The Primate Picasso.


I have visitors from morning till night, and so does Ruby.


But nothing’s changed for her. Every day at two, four, and seven, Ruby plods through the sawdust with Snickers on her back.


Every night she has bad dreams.


“Bob,” I say, after I’ve soothed Ruby to sleep with a story, “my idea isn’t working.”


Bob opens one eye. “Be patient.”


“I’m tired of being patient,” I say.

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