His stomach cramps like a fist closing. He waits until it loosens up; but then, immediately, it does it again, just like a fist opening and closing.
Through the window in the light from the television he sees his wife in the big chair stuck in the back of the living room, a piece of shit chair he picked up off the street years ago and re-covered with thick, brick-red vinyl and pinned with bright, ornamental tacksso at least it looks decent, if it isn't the most comfortable chair in the world.
His wife's head is thrown back on the cushion, and her mouth is open so that she looks as if she's gasping for air.
He holds his stomach, hoping the cramps won't keep him up all night, hoping he can get a good night's sleep.
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my favorite hiding place was like a pitcher full of black water that's all wrecked |