She holds the right side of her face, covering her ear.
I watch the president on the screen eloquently go on about the murder of some bearded egomaniac who loved to watch himself watching himself on TV.
Ever get the feeling it’s like a hall of mirrors?
She holds the right side of her jaw now.
I nod toward the screen: goddamn he’s eloquent. Not like that last fucko who couldn’t string two shits together. What’s wrong with your face?
What is it?
I think I blew something in my inner ear.
But she won’t tell me.
You know that John Wayne bullshit?
John Wayne. Bullshit. American image bullshit. His fucking name was Marion.
We both watch the president. He looks good in his suit. He looks good in his skin. They go to break. Some ad for some guy gearing up to run for president next year. A fucking prototype of the usual bag of goodies. White. Old. White hair. Fat. Gushing about God and family. In the end I hate them all really. We both do. We both know they won’t do anything for any of us.
She says: I think I blew something in my inner ear with that last drink.
Take something for it?
With a drink?
I don’t know. I think.
Jesus. How in hell?
We’re lucky. We squeeze money monthly from weird sources. Tax refunds. Car trade-in. 2 % cash back on credit purchases. An occasional day gig. Selling our couches. Selling some stories. Original art. Used books. DVDs. CDs. Little bit trickles in every month. Somehow we make it.
You should take something.
An ad for an Oscar-winning movie about a royal with a speech impediment. I laugh. Nod toward the screen.
Fucking guy wearing a kilt.
She says: They’re in Scotland. What do you want?
Still. Fucking people.