She moved a few bottles and things around on the coffee table, then she looked up at me and said, âHair of the dog?â
I said, âUmâ¦OK.â
I had been expecting her to swing back into Good Stephanie housewife mode. I thought having those angry broads crashing in on her might have given her a shock. Enough of one to send her back into the safe haven of decent living.
I think she was still drunk. We sat on the front porch with a couple of glasses and polished off the rest of the bourbon, which was mostly just backwash. Stephanie had started swigging from the bottle toward the end of the night.
Doing that, sitting there, was a good vantage point to survey all that suburban crispness. There was something satisfying about it. Everything else around us was afraid to stir. And when it did stir, it just let out a predictable little peep. A garage door opening and closing, a bird chirping. I felt like a couple of hillbillies. She was sitting in a rocking chair. At the same time, feeling like a blight on a landscape like that made me feel urbane and pretty cool.
We sat out there for a while, quietly and meaningfully sipping, although every swallow of lukewarm Jim Beam made my throat burn. It wasnât going down too easy, and I was strongly considering abandoning the attempt. But I have a bit of the old Gunther Shared Ritual in me, I think.
Then old Jimmy came crashing into his yard, thunderously revving his pick-up, bucking-bronco style, before skidding it to a dead stop directly in front of us. Stephanie, to complete the demure suburban cliché, lived in a cul de sac. We were right at the end, so her yard curved toward his. And naturally Jimmy drove a shiny black pick-up truck. What the hell else would he drive? Of course he parked it out on the front lawn. He shot us a filthy sideways glance and headed inside, screen door slamming behind him.
Stephanie cleaned herself up and went to work. I went to work. It seemed things were back to normal.
She was sitting on the couch watching TV, eating rice crackers, when I got home. She said sheâd been out on a date. She met this guy at work, Phillip. He sounded nicer than Jimmy. Or at least I thought he should be, since she met him at a nice personâs job, doing nice person things. Helping the underprivileged to enjoy themselves more, and suchlike.
I went to my room and thought about Gunther some more. I was certain he could feel our connection; how the distance between our minds formed a straight, unbreakable line between us. I knew he could feel me there, wherever he was, thinking about him. I couldnât entertain the thought that he didnât feel me, couldnât feel me; wasnât thinking of me at all. That was too terrifying. Did I mention he left me the typewriter? And a stack of grade-A recycled typing paper.
The next day I left for work early, and wandered around town. I passed a boy sitting in a doorway who gave me little puppy dog eyes. He was cute, and I knew he was giving me the green light. He was looking at me like I could help him fix a problem. Looked like he needed saving, or at least some friendly company. But I didnât even break stride.
Itâs not the same without Gunther. It doesnât seem as adventuresome. When he was out having his night, and I was out having mine, we were still linked, due to reconvene. Sometimes I really did feel like two vampires out on the feed. Out there in the night, kissing boys was safer and more thrilling. Gunther was my anchor, and I was out swimming on a line.
Things have been boring for a while with me working, Stephanie working, her dating, and me not being in the mood for boys. Iâm saving up money, but Iâm still not sure what to do with it.
Phillip came over for dinner, after those two had been dating a few weeks. I had the night off, and they said I could stay put. Well, Stephanie did, and Phillip concurred. He said I could call him Phil. She was making grilled fish
I said, âUmâ¦OK.â
I had been expecting her to swing back into Good Stephanie housewife mode. I thought having those angry broads crashing in on her might have given her a shock. Enough of one to send her back into the safe haven of decent living.
I think she was still drunk. We sat on the front porch with a couple of glasses and polished off the rest of the bourbon, which was mostly just backwash. Stephanie had started swigging from the bottle toward the end of the night.
Doing that, sitting there, was a good vantage point to survey all that suburban crispness. There was something satisfying about it. Everything else around us was afraid to stir. And when it did stir, it just let out a predictable little peep. A garage door opening and closing, a bird chirping. I felt like a couple of hillbillies. She was sitting in a rocking chair. At the same time, feeling like a blight on a landscape like that made me feel urbane and pretty cool.
We sat out there for a while, quietly and meaningfully sipping, although every swallow of lukewarm Jim Beam made my throat burn. It wasnât going down too easy, and I was strongly considering abandoning the attempt. But I have a bit of the old Gunther Shared Ritual in me, I think.
Then old Jimmy came crashing into his yard, thunderously revving his pick-up, bucking-bronco style, before skidding it to a dead stop directly in front of us. Stephanie, to complete the demure suburban cliché, lived in a cul de sac. We were right at the end, so her yard curved toward his. And naturally Jimmy drove a shiny black pick-up truck. What the hell else would he drive? Of course he parked it out on the front lawn. He shot us a filthy sideways glance and headed inside, screen door slamming behind him.
Stephanie cleaned herself up and went to work. I went to work. It seemed things were back to normal.
She was sitting on the couch watching TV, eating rice crackers, when I got home. She said sheâd been out on a date. She met this guy at work, Phillip. He sounded nicer than Jimmy. Or at least I thought he should be, since she met him at a nice personâs job, doing nice person things. Helping the underprivileged to enjoy themselves more, and suchlike.
I went to my room and thought about Gunther some more. I was certain he could feel our connection; how the distance between our minds formed a straight, unbreakable line between us. I knew he could feel me there, wherever he was, thinking about him. I couldnât entertain the thought that he didnât feel me, couldnât feel me; wasnât thinking of me at all. That was too terrifying. Did I mention he left me the typewriter? And a stack of grade-A recycled typing paper.
The next day I left for work early, and wandered around town. I passed a boy sitting in a doorway who gave me little puppy dog eyes. He was cute, and I knew he was giving me the green light. He was looking at me like I could help him fix a problem. Looked like he needed saving, or at least some friendly company. But I didnât even break stride.
Itâs not the same without Gunther. It doesnât seem as adventuresome. When he was out having his night, and I was out having mine, we were still linked, due to reconvene. Sometimes I really did feel like two vampires out on the feed. Out there in the night, kissing boys was safer and more thrilling. Gunther was my anchor, and I was out swimming on a line.
Things have been boring for a while with me working, Stephanie working, her dating, and me not being in the mood for boys. Iâm saving up money, but Iâm still not sure what to do with it.
Phillip came over for dinner, after those two had been dating a few weeks. I had the night off, and they said I could stay put. Well, Stephanie did, and Phillip concurred. He said I could call him Phil. She was making grilled fish
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