“Accident on the seventy five,” I said before she could ask me why I was late.
“Your dinner is on the table”. Cold. She was cold. Dinner was cold. My apartment was perpetual winter.
“Hon?”
“What?” Cold.
“What is this?”
“Catfish and coffee, a splash of cream, one sugar.”
A train passed. The glasses shook on the rack. She used to say that was the ghost of Chinese rail workers. It was cute; our own cute mythology. Now she just watches me eat and I watch the door.
“Accident on the 75?”
“Yes”
“Bull shit.”
“Ok”
It was more of a bull fart. There was an accident on the Seventy five, but it just forced the fourth lane of traffic into the other three lanes, took maybe five minutes off the commute. I missed my exit. I mean I drove past it. I just wasn’t ready to go home. Maybe she thinks I’m having an affair, I’d like that, flair of anger would at least be a close cousin to passion.
“So, where were you really?”
“Just driving around,” I paused to let her fill in the emptiness between us. She did not. “It was a hard day at work, I was de-stressing.”
I don’t know what was worse that I lied or that she accepted it. I’ve always been ready to go out in a gun fight or be eaten by a tiger or fall mountain climbing, silently, so the others wouldn’t remember me by my death-panic. I’m not ready for a slow death by ennui and inertia.
“So, what’d you do today hon?” More filling of space and time.
“Nothing.” Cold.
Prompts for next Friday
Furtive, Cheesy, Elegant
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