We went to a movie. It was flaccid. I suggested a cocktail. We found a bar. The service was indifferent. When does it get better? she asked.
Twisters
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I told her I loved her but she said, I just don’t care, and this made me laugh because I’d expected her to say this. That’s why I loved her.
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There is nothing in the fridge. There’s nothing in the fridge, I say. She throws money at me. Maliciously. I don’t want to live, I announce.
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He got out of the minivan and took in the bleak vista. The distant hills shimmered in the heat. Where are we? she asked. We’re here, he said.
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A woman walks over to me. She looks me over. She is tall, with an expression that bespeaks past injury. Hi, I say. She starts to cry. A lot.
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She says, You’re tough. I wipe the blood off my face. Do you like tough? I ask. She touches my arm. I hide my bottle of medicated skin cream.
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I watched my mother grow old. Don’t flatter yourself, she complained. Gray hair grew out of her chin now. I used to wipe your bum, she said.
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The blind man touches her face. He explores it slowly with his fingers. You’ve had work done, he says. You’ve been eating Chinese, she says.
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I hung up the painting. It’s fugly, she said. But I’d paid a lot for it. She knew this. She stood there, shaking her head. It’s art, I said.
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I walked into the conference room. Everyone was quiet. The air felt morbid. Who died? I said. I laughed. Apparently someone had really died.
