In which the Fictional Bruce McDonald discusses some things with the Fictional Gillian Sze
“do you think I’ve got them figured right?”
“honey you’ve got them figured alright.”
“because you know exactly where they live – corner of money and gimme some.”
“that’s their deal, it’s always the money.”
“that’s their deal.”
“well…” He takes a swipe at the condensation on the window. Pulls the blind down. “too much bright in here.”
“well what do you want to do… now?” She smiles. She always smiles first. She kicks off her shoes. Skin extra light in the dim light. Pulls the socks slow. Orange peels on the floor. Casino eyes.
A few years ago he started writing a book. A novel. It started like this:
“She told me to get in the car. She didn’t tell me where we were going. And we never got there.”
He never got much further than that. Decided instead to go into the movie business. Told her there was a gun in the trunk. There was. He called her Rocket. ‘Cause she went off like one.
He read once somewhere this thing about a sociopath, if a sociopath was to come across a fatal car accident, and there was a dead child, and the mother was inconsolable, and if the mother were on her knees in the glass and blood, crying, screaming, the sociopath, he’d go home. And he’d practice making those same faces in the mirror. Fair scene in a movie, right there. After dusk he wanders into the tree line behind the soft vinyl sided building slowly driven by something he does not know fingers lightly brushing the rough tree edges his neck becomes sore from looking up
(original photo credit: Tea Hadžiristić)