creamy cold sweetness, I can’t believe there ever was a
time before. I eat a half-gallon of Rocky Road. Hell, yes, I
think. It is. Very rocky. Things are funny to me that aren’t
to other people. Like that. Rocky. Road.
*
*
*
“Sorry about Jan,” my friend says. He clasps a six-
pack against his chest.
“Hmm,” I say.
I don’t tell him I haven’t thought about her in
weeks, not since I signed the divorce papers. Our photos
still hang on the wall but looking at them is as sentimental
as flipping through a magazine in some doctor’s waiting
room.
“I brought your favorite!” he passes me a bottle.
“Did you hear the one about the three nuns in the bar?”
The beer is bitter, it’s hard to imagine I ever liked
it, but I force little sips while he finishes the joke. He
repeats the punch line when I don’t respond.
“Beer’s good,” I say because though I cannot force
a laugh that isn’t there, I’m learning to lie.
“Next weekend. Fishing. The lake. Wanna go?”
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