Judge Me Not

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When the woman left his side he turned, in his sleep, toward the window.

The late October sun slanted across West Canada Lake, rebounded from the locked shutters of the other camps, shone with faint warmth through the open window of Teed Morrow’s rented camp, shone red through his closed eyelids as he let himself drift slowly up from a nap of pure relaxation. He lay naked on the red and blue Indian blanket, a rangy, deep-chested man, with muscles laced tightly to the angular bones. The brown hair on his arms and legs was bleached lighter than his summer tan. He yawned and sat up slowly, stretching his left arm until the shoulder popped, scratching his chest with the knuckles of his right hand. His features were heavy, and his eyes were chronically sleepy, and his hair was a tight cap of brown-blond wire, thinning just a bit on top.

He squinted appreciatively across the lake at the fading fire-colors of autumn on the slopes of the Adirondack hills, and felt sad that this was nearly the last of the week ends before the camp was taken over by winter.

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