They fall into bed. He reaches for the side table and produces a book. He starts to read it to her. She closes her eyes. Soon she is asleep.
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She takes out a tape measure and takes his beer and starts measuring him and he looks confused and then realizes she’s measuring his decline.
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The phone rang. It was his daughter. Mommy says she’s making popcorn for dinner, she said. He looked at his watch. It was an expensive watch.
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And then that moment arrived and I could see she was confused, and she said, Aren’t you going to take off your shoes? and so I had to leave.
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It was when their love felt institutional that he interrupted dinner and announced his intentions, and she said, Because I served leftovers?
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Then the wind picked up and it started to rain. We scrambled to get the picnic covered and she lamented the waste. I let the quiche get wet.
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We are friends in the social media sense. We can walk by each other without recognition. But I love her delicate hands. She’s posted photos.
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We were lost, not physically, but in our own manner, we felt it physically however, I felt it in my toes for example, but I’m weird that way.
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We decided to act like men. It was unwritten. I yelled, Beer! We rumbled across the street. Invaded a bar. Drank. Plundered. Paid our bills.
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And then she slapped me with my belt and I learned something about myself then and I thanked her, and I understood that pain made me hungry.
