“I open my eyes. Despite everything, knowing all that may be in store, I rake my arm across the drainboard and send the dishes smashing and scattering across the floor.
He doesn’t move. I know he has heard, he raises his head as if listening but he doesn’t move otherwise, doesn’t turn around to look.
I hate him for that, for not moving. He waits a minute, then draws on his cigarette and leans back in the chair. I pity him for listening, detatched, and then settling back and drawing on his cigarette.
The wind takes the smoke out of his mouth in a thin stream. Why do I notice that? He can never know how much I pity him for that, for sitting still and listening and letting the smoke stream out of his mouth.”
I’ve realised I lent someone (who? when?) my Carver short stories. Balls. Because all I want to do now is read them. Hello Amazon. How are you?
PS, it’s about a bunch of guys who go fishing and find a dead girl in the river. They tie her up and leave her and fish for another day. Then they call the cops.