They stopped going out at seven p.m.
on Friday. Stumbling home Friday at five p.m.
to express a very spiritual astonishment
that they were able to once again figure out
which apartment was theirs in a Hong Kong range
of ten thousand in every possible direction.

It was either God working in a small-budget miracle
and not even realizing it, or it was just that the two of them
had picked up a lot of old age credibility in their dreams.

Maybe they just didn’t know what to make
of all those possibilities. The buildings were hundreds of small towns,
and the people consisted of twenty million extras fighting to have
a speaking role.

It happens to the best couples. One minute they’re dancing their way
out of trouble, and then the next hour they’re giving bondage parties
a shot and having picnics in the park.

At some point the old man will turn to the even older woman
and call her a fat whore or some such thing after she rips out a piece
of his skin for talking to another woman.

He would probably call the two of them
a sitcom ahead of the times. She would smash a half-empty bottle
of wine in the kitchen and mutter something
about her pretty older sister having another ugly kid.

They stopped going out at seven p.m. on Friday,
so they can hold on
to the good things for another forty years.

Those laugh tracks are kinda priceless in their advancing seconds.

02/16/2011

Posted on 02/16/2011
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