No Cure for Death
“She was wearing a stretched out old Iowa sweat shirt of mine that hit her mid-thigh like a miniskirt, and normally I’d have spent some time wondering what she had on under there, only I was too burned out to really care. I had called her from the hospital an hour or so ago, to warn her I’d be late—and to tell her about Davis’s fall. As I walked across the living room I tripped over the empty beer bottle I’d tossed at Davis and the bottle seemed an apt metaphor for how I felt: empty, useless, no...nreturnable.
Rita said, “I couldn’t sleep.”
“I haven’t been up this late since junior-senior prom.”
“No offense, but you look like shit, honey.”
“Guess how I feel.”
“Like you look.”
“Like I look,” I confirmed, stumbling over to the couch where I flopped down on my stomach. My nose sniffed the air: something nice cooking. I said, “What smells good?”
Rita said, “I found a coffee cake mix in your cupboard. I’m making it. Is that okay?”
“That’s not okay.MoreLess
Rita said, “I couldn’t sleep.”
“I haven’t been up this late since junior-senior prom.”
“No offense, but you look like shit, honey.”
“Guess how I feel.”
“Like you look.”
“Like I look,” I confirmed, stumbling over to the couch where I flopped down on my stomach. My nose sniffed the air: something nice cooking. I said, “What smells good?”
Rita said, “I found a coffee cake mix in your cupboard. I’m making it. Is that okay?”
“That’s not okay.MoreLess
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