The Meter Running
He holds up his index finger and wiggles it.
“This is my wife. She goes to bed with me every night. You know what I mean.”
You nod, distractedly. “Can you turn the heating up? I mean. Jesus. Is it so unreasonable for me to not want to see my breath in the air in September?”
He slams his hands down repeatedly on the steering wheel and sobs. “My wife! She’s never coming back!”
“Your wife is attached to your fucking hand. You just showed me.”
“She’s dead!”
“What?” You light a cigarette. “Look, your problems are not easy to comprehend. I don’t have room in my head for them. This morning I could hear a cow bell, only it wasn’t a cow bell, it was rain from the gutter of the church across the street. You can imagine I was confused.”
“Sometimes I hear her running her fingers down the walls!”
“That’s misery, man. That’s misery.” You open the window. “Can you speed up? I’m dying here.”
“My wife. My wife.”
“Yeah.” You contemplate the back of his neck. “Just keep going. Jesus.”
