She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. It was time. She was almost accustomed to the growling rumble of bombardment. The game of trying to discerned a pattern had worn her numb. A progression of booms, growing ever lower and more muffled, would be followed by a blast so close that you heard the rain of second story glass. She had hidden for three days in the linen closet, most of it curled fetal-like reading her book by candle light.
Thaddeus McChesney leaned into you when he spoke. He gave you irrefutable advice and detailed explanations of the trivial. His job at the bottling company had involved adjusting the labels, truing them to lay parallel to the draft’s bottom and spell checking their fine print. I doubt he ever drank a beer. His edge was important to him. Why dull it? He ate organic, fearing to introduce the slightest dust into the well oiled machinery of his life. The fact that he expected such accuracy of others nurtured in many hearts a concern that he might never die.
“Ephron writes the following; ‘I cracked an egg upon my dining room table,’ Stop, ‘‘It puddled and pooled, glimmering like a jellyfish in the morning light’ Stop, ‘Then majestically it slid its finger across the boundary of the table’s edge‘ Stop, ‘Falling, it picked up speed, The whole jelly fish thing, gripped by it’s own surface tension, slopped onto my rug‘ Stop, and end of message.”