No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
In undergraduate school Carly spent the night before the first day of classes going through textbooks, reading the introductions. She told herself that in order to succeed in business, she needed to experiment. They had been told, hadn’t they, that social relationships would be the most important thing to their success in business school. She would be someone else now.
I knew it would happen. I thought about it all the time the way any wife with a sick husband does about what it would actually be like when he went. All those nighttime runs to the emergency room, all the phone calls and the drugs and the tubes. What would be the moment? And when he did finally–and finally it was everything that got him, kidneys, heart, lungs all of it–what a relief. Not that I was prepared, I wasn’t, how could you be really but it wasn’t a surprise, not at all, no. On the way to the cemetery I was looking out the window, amazed that it had actually happened. I may even have said so out loud which would have been embarrassing if I did. If I did, nobody remarked but who would?
Kurt moved on his belly beneath the briars that formed a rudimentary roof for the hollowed out basin of earth the two men had called home for two nights now, slithering over the lip of the hollow and following the pull of gravity through the dark to where he knew Leo would be. The movement was that of a snake’s, but Kurt knew that he could not be a snake because a snake would have been long gone by now. He thought about what other animals he could be; a loyal mastiff at best, a fuck-witted donkey at worst.
The sad thing was, the whole affair came about by chance. Malcolm had no reason to be in the Second Round Bookstore on that Thursday afternoon.
Funerals. Among the many things I hate is attending funerals. They are by far the most sanctimonious events on earth. A time where people heaped superficial emotions, pity and tears and then settle down for a cup of tea and hot soup. No matter how much I hated attending funerals, I was obliged to attend this one. It was a necessary evil, a last respect paid to someone no matter how honourable they were in their lifetime. There was no reason whatsoever why people who lived an un-gemy life should be tagged real and rare gems in death.
In the recovery area, someone brought Kate a little plastic cup of orange juice and a cold blueberry muffin. Cranked into sitting position, she ate out of groggy obedience. When she was able to stand, she dressed herself. Then a nurse escorted her out to the waiting room.