My current job sucks. It’s the same one I’ve had since I graduated from college. These
days I tend to look backward.
I ran into Rooster a few days ago. We literally bumped into each other at a Trader
Joe’s. I hadn’t seen him in ages.
“Jesus,” he said, pointing to my bald head. “It’s been a long time. Hey, you remember
th at crazy woman from the pool, Mrs. Fletcher or something?”
“Flanagan?”
“Yeah, that’s it. She’s dying.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it’s the craziest thing. My mother, believe it or not, wound up buying a condo in
that development after my dad died and they became g ood friends.”
“Seriously?”
“Isn’t that crazy? My mom used to tell me all the time about her friend and when they
eventually realized they had a connection, well, Mrs. Fletcher —”
“Flanagan.”
“Right. Well, she used to say all the time how much she though t you were great. Tell
me, seriously, were you screwing around with her?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, anyway, she’s dying. My mother went to see her the other day.”
*
*
*
The sun is starting to set and the room is growing darker, the pink turning to red. I don’t
turn on the lights. Instead, I drag my chair closer to her bed. I study the lines on her face, the
indentations from her pillow, the irritated skin where a thin tube lays across her lip and enters
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