Wednesday, January 17, 2018


“I don’t know,” he paused and licked his lips. His eyes darted around her living room and settled on her family pictures spinning in a digital frame. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember what I was gonna say.”

She shifted herself in the stiff-backed chair. “It’s okay,” she soothed, “take your time.”

He covered his forehead with his hand. “It’s the goddamned medicine. It causes short term memory loss.” Sweat began to bead under his palm so he dropped his hand onto the arm of the chair. He quickly lifted it off the fabric and wiped his hands on his trousers. “And sweat. It’s like I’m a pig.”

“I’m sorry you’re so sick. Tell me what to do.”

“Nothing you can do.” He tried to bathe the roof of his mouth with his tongue. The medicine caused dry mouth too. “Oh I just remembered. I don’t know why you didn’t come backstage. Or at least stay until I came out. I wanted to know what you thought of it.”

“I was overwhelmed.” She crossed her feet and tucked them under the chair.

“Did you at least th..." his voice cracked, "ink it was good?” He swallowed. “Jesus Christ, I sound like I’m going through puberty.”

“Honey, I didn’t hear the play. I only saw it.”

He squinted his eyes and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “What? I don’t understand.”

“I only saw how sick you were.”

“I can’t believe how sick I was. But I finished.” He began to cry. “I finished.”

“You did.”

“Was it obvious?”

She stood and walked and knelt beside the chair. “Only to me.”

“I don’t think I can do this. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

She took his hand inside hers and pulled him into her embrace. “You’re going to finish.”