Our Watchman

Shakespeare’s ghost was haunting our houseboat. But in the fog it was hard to tell. We floated downriver as if guided by the rheumy hand of fate. The only hint of Shakespeare’s presence was the typing at night, which could have been the minute hand that shared his room. He was working around the clock on a tragedy he wouldn’t let anyone near. We slept with one eye open.

That morning, we looked in the mirror. I was made up to be an attendant with exaggerated red lips and two black eyes. My wife was a China doll left on the moon who kept slitting her wrists. The swans we were keeping for breakfast were nowhere to be seen. Shakespeare! we screamed. It had his name written all over it!