Thursday August 8, 2019
We get caught behind a funeral on the way to the cemetery.
“I guess we should pull over?” You say. Everything a question. Everything in question.
“Obviously,” I say. Sour milk.
You pull over and so do the other cars on the road. Let the procession pass.
I’m back the day Steve died. Finding him. Vomiting and screaming and cupping his face in my hands. I’m back at his memorial. Nothingness into more nothingness and egg salad sandwiches.
“You okay?” You say. Everything a fucking question.
“No I’m not okay!” I say. Forgotten leftovers at the back of the fridge.
“I know what you mean…” I give a one-third smile two third grimace.