A Portrait of the Marxist as a Young Man

He awakens to a day like any other, in a town like any other. Walks to the cafe, pursued by the metronome of heels, each footfall a gunshot in his ears.

"Karl," his friends say, "You should get out more, you should come party with us."

"Whatever, man," he replies.

"Good old Karl." They laugh. But he is not, "Good Old Karl" anymore. He is changing, can feel himself changing, but does what know what he is changing into.

He goes to parties at his friends's behest.

"Heyheyhey," they say to all who will listen. "Come here, you have to see Karl do this thing he does. Do it, Karl."

"Whatever, man," he says, and shrugs.

The room erupts into laughter. "Do it again, do it again."

6 o'clock in the morning and he is walking the streets, seeking - what? He spots a woman doing laundry and is instantly smitten. Here, at last, the revolution he did not know he was seeking. She is his alpha, his omega. His Eurydice. He stands still as the years wash over him, seeing their marriage, their home, their children. She has finished her washing and is waking away but he does not notice. At last he looks up, just as she turns and glances back at the strange, frozen figure by the river. Their eyes meet, and the spell is broken; he is sent tumbling back into the Hades of his thoughts, an unhappy shade.