From the story Angelfish

As in:

As we take a curve past a boarded up farmhouse and a stand of Russian Olive trees, Marjorie stretches her arms out. In my experience with her, this movement and the exclamatory yawn can be like the sound of a bolt-action carbine being loaded.

“How long have you been seeing Gina?” she asks.

“About four months,” I say.

“Is she good in bed?” she asks.

Here, I reflect on my options, to decide whether to be discrete, or salacious, or whether it even matters. I give it a few seconds.

“Remember that thunderstorm last Thursday?” I ask.

“Right,” she affirms.

“She slept through it,” I say. “Didn’t even roll over.”

I look over at her as she offers me a lame smile.

“So, yeah,” I continue, “she’s terrific in bed.”

“Whatever happened to Melanie?” she asks, as we now speed past Angus cattle who look plump and relaxed, as though they’ve never been audited.

I wait for the odometer to register another tenth of a mile.

“Syphilis,” I say.

The tires hum across the grated deck of a small bridge.

“Liar,” she says.


Previous posts in this story: Permeated, Icing.

Next story segment, Tenuous

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