Burial

***

“Goodnight,” I said to Kay. We had talked all night, about everything. Sleep was on the horizon.

The sun was just cresting my blinds, pushing diluted light into the living room. I turned off all the lights, tried to clean a little bit and then with a WHUMP I fell into the recliner. Ready to sleep. Fully, this time.

But, I couldn’t. Soon, a renewed energy coursed through me. Maybe it was that I was about to sleep the sunlight away and wanted to go. Maybe it was that talking for hours and hours made me sleepy. I’ve never been that much of a talker. I turned on the final episodes of my Californiacation marathon. Season 4. I’d be all caught up.

When I was caught up, I still couldn’t sleep. I needed to get out. There were errands, but they didn’t have any immediacy. May as well get them out of the way. The sun’s out after days of rain, slush and snowfall. I really had no choice.

I hit the pharmacy. I hit In N Out Burger for a much deserved meal of the world’s best fast food. I sat there, R.L. Burnside coming from my speakers. The run of good days continued. The next time became the today. The imagined puff was now the sweet burger, fries and milkshake on my tongue. On the way home the fuel light bitched at me, so I fed it. On the way home the boozer lifted his head, so I got him burbon, some Coke and a six pack of Hops Rising.

Home, finally. Ready to sleep. Full belly, smiles and a bourbon and Coke in my hand. I spent a bit, so clickity-clack and the account comes up. Something doesn’t seem right. Its low. Too low. I put in the expenses I was going to pay tomorrow. Rent. Car payment. I search for others. Not everything is out yet. I calculate. So very low. Fuck.

Fuck her.

I text her, saying she has to stop spending. She says she has. I point out our bills, now my bills, will put us over and that’s just on the two big ones. She apologizes, but excuses spill out. Needed this for this job she doesn’t have. Needed that for the same thing. They keep coming. She tells me not to yell at her because it won’t change anything. How anyone can yell through text I don’t know. The caps remained grammatically correct.

Fuck this bitch.

Make sure to save some money. When I show up, you owe me., I typed.

Yeah, I’ll try.

Her favorite phrase. The flowery air of good intentions masking the stench of condensation.

Fuck this. If you want your stuff, you will. Otherwise you get what I already sent.

Excuses flow like excrement into a corner bar toilet bowl.

You’ve got friends. You’ll manage. Add up your two Wal-Mart trips and that’s what you owe.

She won’t be able to afford any more than that. When you move in with scum, you get paid with rotten promises.

So, $250?

Yup.

I’ll try.

“Yeah,” I said to no one. In my back pocket is seven hundred dollars of money saved from my checks and my generous parents. In my hand is my debit card. I walk into the bank. “I need to cancel every debit card on the account but this one.” I slide the card across. I probably smelled angry. Angry smelled like tobacco and bourbon.

I’ve gone far in this pseudo-death grieving process. Each day a little more dirt goes in the grave. Yesterday, she inspired me to drop the shovel and rent a backhoe. By the time I got back home, I had stuck in a single flower, said a prayer and turned my back on the little unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere.

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One response to “Burial

  1. Pingback: Linkage is Good for You: Nope Edition

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