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Marketing

Maria called Peter sometime late in the evening. His answering machine picked up. It said, "Life is an illusion, the shadow of a bubble." It also said, "Please leave a message -- what you have to say is really important." Maria left some silence and then she left a message.

A week ago, Maria was changing the water in the fish tank as Peter was in the study working on a manuscript; it was for an upcoming story that he had labored and talked over many nights while they were in bed. It was a Sunday. She had some things to do but decided to put them off until after lunch. It was a Sunday and Easter, what difference would it make. The water began to rise towards the top of the ten galloon tank as Maria looked on. She was holding the garden hose, pulled in from the backyard, in her left hand. She stood and watched as it overspilled and wet the carpet around it. Peter came downstairs.

"It's okay," he said. He held her and repeated it. Maried started to cry. She cried violently. Peter brought her into the study and laid her down on the bed. He made some phone calls.

Later in the day, after lunch, Pam came over. She brought some dinner and afterwards, made a cosmopolitan for Maria from the bar downstairs. They talked for a bit. Small things. Things that Maria never cared to talk about. "I want to sleep for a bit," Maria said abruptly. "Sure. I'll be right here," Pam said.

Pam and Peter went downstairs to talk some more. Maria slept until the middle of the night. It was not a deep sleep, but it was dreamless and restful. When she awoke up, the house was quiet. She went downstairs. Pam was sleeping on the sofa. Peter was smoking outside on the backyard patio. Maria looked at the goldfishes and tapped her finger on the glass.

Things like these don't last
I'm sorry for maybe thinking they'd...

But shh tss tss shhh they didn't. My insides were bleeding out through my nose and onto the gravel and Lionel kept saying "lets go, Rory lets go lets go they called the cops." The sky was clear so it was colder than it usually was in November. My brain was connecting with my legs slower, lazier because I didn't understand what was happening.
Lionel started pulling me and I stumbled over a handgun.
(it nearly hit me)
Shh tss tss shh the wind was blowing and I could hear the police around the hill. The bottoms of my jeans were wet with dew and I still couldn't feel my body.
God, heaven forbid, I loved the people who loved God. What a contradicting maniac. She wore a cross around her neck every day until her skin would turn green from the cheap-o metal. Her skin would be green for sure by morning if she laid there in the grass 'til someone found her.
"Where do you think we'd be safe?" Lionel had me at some diner parking lot behind an old truck that never seemed to leave anywhere anymore.
I didn't respond because Lora was dead. She was gonna be part of the ground now and that's all that mattered. She would be the grass that old men mowed every Tuesday evening.