June asks which sentence he removes most often. Pavel says the one that explains the feeling the previous sentence already had the manners to imply. They are sitting in a let room he has borrowed for the afternoon, the kind with a kettle that takes a position on the world. He talks about tenants who almost stay, and about the ethics of inventing their kitchens. She asks the question again, slower. The second time he says he removes the sentence that would make him look like a writer who knows what the story is for. Silence, he says, is not a style he sprinkles on. It is what is left when he stops recruiting the reader to admire the quiet. June lets the tape run. The kettle finishes its argument. Neither of them rushes to speak over it.#
This is an excerpt. The complete piece is in the print and digital edition of Issue 03.