“They’d stopped at her place for a change of clothes before leaving the city and he saw that she’d changed into khaki pants and a faded cotton shirt. Her hair was damp. The sink had been half full of dirty dishes when he’d left earlier; now they were washed and sitting in the strainer. “I used your shower,” she said. “No problem.” “Any idea how old this spaghetti is?” she asked, holding up the box. “I would say … less than a year,” he estimated. “Christ,” she said. “Spaghetti doesn’t go bad.” “Y...ou can eat first then,” she said. “And you don’t believe in washing dishes?” “I got one arm,” Virgil said. “Right,” she said. “I forgot about that. You wouldn’t be able to do the dishes. You can bale hay, and feed cows and combine wheat. You can steal the rotor from my truck and throw it in a fucking storm sewer, but there’s no way you could wash dishes.” “That spaghetti about done?” Virgil asked. After they ate, Virgil made a pot of coffee—another thing he could do with one arm, Dusty pointed out—and they sat on the side porch.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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