It was Peter’s favorite drink. He poured it into the sink. “Nice,” she said. He gave a rueful laugh and started singing: “The widow made plans / And threw up her hands / At Pat Murphy’s bar / She’s always a star.” She pointed at the sink. “And you’re the widow, I presume?” He made a face like an Iyem and reminded her that just the day before, crack of dawn, he had taken her for a drive up the hill to the big white church. The two of them had held hands up there and looked across the valley, ribboned with fences. “Enclosure,” he had said. “Heart of capitalism.” She conceded his point, though she had not been objecting up until then, and they drove into the small downtown. Barely anyone was awake yet. They got coffee and sat in the car. “What are we doing?” she said. He bowed his head in defeat. “You’re right,” he said. “I really have to stop drinking.”
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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