The thing has two buttons. He knows he must push one of them. His shoulders sag under the burden of his choice. And then he closes his eyes.
Twisters
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We had a few beers. We went to the beach and did some yelling. We had more beers. We used to live in caves! I yelled. Now we live in Malibu.
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It was time to say good bye. I could smell her sorrow. We kissed and held each other. You’re hurting me, I said finally. I know, she replied.
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She starts crying. I sigh and stare at the sun until I can’t see clearly anymore. So that I can feel something. I am not a monster, I growl.
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The pug faced man posseses powerful genes. His children harbor awesome levels of resentment. Your mother’s so beautiful, he tells them often.
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She sits beside me and we watch our kids. She smells like a bouquet of sunshine. I don’t believe in mutually assured destruction, she sighs.
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The ads came on and she got up to go pee. When she returned I said, I feel like buying everything I just saw advertised. And we both laughed.
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I can’t help how I walk. You walk like an asshole, is something I hear often. I don’t walk confidently into a room. But I sure can clear it.
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She listens as I hyperventilate into the phone about last night’s gutsucking game, the arcane knowledge I possess of things that aren’t her.
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The insurance man speaks of liabilities and I say, You’re a liability, and then I light a smoke and play with broken glass and then he cries.
