She was sitting in front of the TV, remote in hand, water, books, and pills on the side table. She lowered the sound when he came in and sat, his back hurting from the day’s work.
I don’t think I’ll be able to get up.
You poor thing.
Bent over a sink for the last few hours.
It’s so good you came.
I’m a little late.
That doesn’t matter. As long as you’re here.
Turn that sound off. I can’t stand him.
I feel the same way.
He’s ugly. He’s ugly inside and out.
They’ll get him.
I’m not so sure.
He had a mean father.
That explains everything.
Outside, snow, a nor’easter, moisture from the south, cold from the west, almost a whiteout. Snow on the window screens, the earth muddy and soft, it’s March, the plow blade has been digging up sods.
Where’s your story.
It’s not ready.
Have you read mine?
Most of it.
What did you think?
He rocks back and forth, unzips his jacket. Why is all this so important? Human feelings, parents and children, domesic situations, images in silence on the screen, he said, she said, bombs and bullets, snakes and related reptiles, money in gigabytes, bluejays frantic on the feeder.
They don’t give a fuck.
She laughs, the action hiking up her shirt to reveal the insulin pump and small diameter delivery tube. His father had been a Type II and he’d told her the stories, no pumps then, prick your finger and load the hypo.
What about it do you find interesting?
You have a good situation.
I don’t know. Maybe you need to say more at the beginning
Then I’ll give it away.
That’s always a problem.