She fears the sculptures downtown will be moved. He is positive they are a permanent installation. He thought it was poisonous if cooked incorrectly, toxic if not given proper cooling and care. She thought it was harmless but the first bite squished. Uptight and shrill. No, slack and soothing. She wants to see this film because she read a good review. He wants a source. They are outside the theatre, a line winding. “This is not the time for citations,” she believes. “Is there any time to waste twelve-fifty?” he would like to know.
She thinks the betrayal sounded low and pulsing, like a bruising, a seeping out, an end of a part of a whole. The sound he heard was nothing, nothing at all, maybe a small burp, a tiny echo to the back of a cave where only deaf, sleeping bats hung.
He thought if only they could return to where they once were. She thought could and would were miles and years apart, distant futilities under the same sun, with the same chance of being burned, the same chance of cancer.
Cancer as in the sign or cancer as in the killer?
The disease. Definitely the disease.
Getting Jesus in the Mood