Gray Matter [antikvár]

T^Vog stood at the stove, stirring the contents of an |L/omelet pan. As he reached for the garlic salt on the counter, he savored a familiar aroma he hadn't enjoyed in years. Too long, a voice groused in his mind. He thought it was Pa but he wasn't sure. To the rest of the world, the schmucks, he had a real name. It was even a dignified name. But inside he was plain old Dog, as Ma and Pa had called him when they were mad, which was most of the time. He could practié cally hear Ma's shrill voice as he dutifully stirred, wearing boxer shorts and nothing else, in the kitchen of his suburban home. The kitchen was small, with appliances, counter tops, and sink crowding a narrow aisle. It reminded Dog of the kitchen of a train where he had once worked, washing and chopping vegetables for the passengers, most of them elderly, who still traveled by train. He paused for a moment, remembering how their falsé teeth clicked as they ate, usually one per table, in the dining car. Most people wouldn't have noticed the tiny clicking noises above the steady rhythm of metál wheels on tracks, but he had always been fascinated with the mechanics of eating. Dog's memories and thought paths were sensory oriented. For a while his thoughts looped in remembered images, smells, tastes,