At this moment, the story in his head was perfect. He also knew from experience that it would degenerate the second he started typing, because such was the nature of writing.
We traveled for two weeks with a pickled hippo.
Being the survivor stinks.
Although there are times I’d give anything to have her back, I’m glad she went first. Losing her was like being cleft down the middle. It was the moment it all ended for me, and I wouldn’t have wanted her to go through that.
Jacob: I’ve never seen so much manure. Wade: Baggage stock horses. They pack’em in 27 a car. Jacob: how do you stand the smell? Wade: what smell?
Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.
Do you have any idea how much an elephant drinks?
Hey! Shouts Camel. There ain’t no woman in the world worth two bottles of whiskey!
Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes I can’t find myself any more. When did I stop being me?
Sometimes I think if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I’d choose the corn.
I roll onto my side and stare out the venetian blinds at the blue sky beyond. After a few minutes I’m lulled into a sort of peace. The sky, the sky – same as it always was.
I just can’t. I’m married. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.
I’m truly grateful for my microwave, which allows me to easily clarify butter, steam vegetables, and – when I am really lazy – feed my three kids in less than five minutes.
Although, pretending not to notice is almost worse than noticing.
When did I stop being me?
The thought has cheered me, and I’d like to hang onto that. Must protect my little pockets of happiness.
Afterward, I curl around her. We lie in silence until darkness falls, and then, haltingly, she begins to talk... She speaks without need or even room for response, so I simply hold her and stroke her hair. She talks of the pain, grief, and horror of the past four years; of learning to cope with being the wife of a man so violent and unpredictable his touch made her skin crawl and of thinking, until quite recently, that she’d finally managed to do that. And then, finally, of how my appearance had forced her to realize she hadn’t learned to cope at all.
Sometimes when you get older – and I’m not talking about you, I’m talking generally, because everyone ages differently – things you think on and wish on start to seem real. And then you believe them, and before you know it they’re part of your history, and if someone challenges you on them and says they’re not true – why, then you get offended because you can’t remember the first part. All you know is that you’ve been called a liar.
In your thirties something strange starts to happen. It’s a mere hiccup at first, an instant of hesitation. How old are you? Oh, I’m – you start confidently, but then you stop. You were going to say thirty-three, but you’re not. You’re thirty-five. And then you’re bothered, because you wonder if this is the beginning of the end. It is, of course, but it’s decades before you admit it.
All I can do is put in time waiting for the inevitable, observing as the ghost of my past rattle around my vacuous present. They crash and bang and make themselves at home, mostly because there’s no competition. I’ve stopped fighting them. They’re crashing and banging around in there now. Make yourselves at home, boys. Stay awhile. Oh, sorry- I see you already have. Damn ghost.