It's the new kind of crying.

Malta Street Art Festival - Valletta 2015 Artist Antoine Stevens

Nic returned to the table and leaned his chin on folded hands. His eyes were bloodshot. His whole face seemed kind of bloodshot. He smiled, because he was brave.

Tired? I asked.

Epically, he said.

He got up to put on a record, vinyl was his thing now. He liked the step-by-stepness of it, the process. He held the record the way people hold records, not with his fingers but with his palms. He blew on it. The music was a soft whisper, one acoustic guitar, no voices. When he came back to the table he asked me to look at his eyes.

They’re seeping, he said. Like I have an infection or something.

Pine eye? I asked.

I don’t know, he said. They always seem to eb running, just clear liquid, not pus. I lie in bed and all this liquid dribbles out the sides. Maybe I should see a doctor, or optometrist or something.

You’re crying, Nic.

No…

Yes. That’s what they call crying.

But all the time? He asked. I’m not even conscious of it then.

It’s a new kind of crying. I said. For new times. I leaned over and put my hands on his shoulder and then on the sides of his face in the same way that he’d held his record.

Extract from All my Puny Sorrows by Miriam Toews