Alan’s finger idled through the bar chimes. He stared at the wall and wondered what he might have for dinner.
Two months ago, Rachel had pouted in the doorway: “I want something Beatle-esque.”
Then, she’d eyed the room with distaste.
“And, I want this room back after we’re married.”
She had flounced off to continue preparations – buying the dress; choosing the bouquet; finding the location, and deciding who sat where. His only job (except to show up) was to create the music for them to exit the church to.
Alan sighed. The only song that provided inspiration was “Yesterday”.
Sylvia cupped her chin in her hands and watched Louis. Her elbows rested on the window sill while her bottom smooshed against the end kitchen cabinet. It was a small kitchen in a small apartment.
Louis would visit this evening after he had finished unloading the barge, and his clothes would smell of fruit and vegetables. She would help him remove his shirt then press her mouth to his warm, damp skin. He would taste divine.
Across the street, Martha watched from her window. She was not interested in her husband; only in the woman who had stolen his affection.
Sherry said it was a quail, and cuz their hippie neighbor had ‘em, they should too. She’d cried about the chickens in cages but hadn’t minded eating their eggs all her life.
Larry watched it ponce around the back garden. Two months they’d had it, and still no eggs. How did birds get eggs anyway? Did they have sex with another bird? And how come eggs didn’t have baby birds inside?
Larry didn’t know, and he was tired with Sherry looking for a life that didn’t belong to her.