Food. Cat’s only pay attention to who gives them food.


Mmm… yes—gotta go with your gut. It’s a process like anything else. Peristaltic motion. You go forward. You can’t go back. And it comes through in waves—the movement… The gut is for the devil. The heart is for God. Course you can control what you consume but not how you digest it. And expending energy? Well I guess nothin’s wasted. You just think out your moves more. And feel less… Been married and divorced a couple times like me you learn the secret. A good woman’ll get ya thinkin’ with your gut so you ain’t thinkin’ with your dick.

The mail truck is leaving. They watch from their plastic lawn chairs as the taillights flash and the turn signal blinks a quick jolt of inertia in the stop and go back on the main road. You follow it now. You follow it as the rain begins to fall. Heavier drops now that wet the dust and gravel of the potholes the mail truck avoids. It drives by The Matrix. A car audio shop just off the highway on the frontage road that leads to Bentley and you don’t follow the mail truck anymore once it turns south on this road because you follow the side street that leads back to Rural King past the rusting blue dumpster up a hill on the easement a tractor-trailer parked there partially obscuring the view of the mailboxes the truck just left and here the view pauses just above the dumpster and then circles around back to the small house across the street with tan siding the kitchen window there just above a rose bush growing wild and for a moment you think the view is going to enter in past the curtains but instead you round the house to the front to the long gravel driveway and the black Cadillac parked there.


A thermometer comes into focus. Old and wooden and ornately decorated attached to a barometer and below it another needle noting the humidity at 75%. It’s hanging on a white wall between patio windows cracked open only partially the vertical venetian blinds opened fully because it’s going to rain but it lets a breeze in with the patio door open at one end of the room and a standing fan positioned in front of another open window at the other end. The fan is on wheels and swivels on its arms. It is made of old metal painted green. Electra von Turnipseed sits in the room with her son Carter Sexton


I remember when we got that fan—your father and I. We got it at a Woolworth’s in 1960. The year we were married…