On A Weekend

You stuff crisp towels in a drawer as a centipede crawls on your foot. It’s the size of a big worm. It holds more value than the spiders you kill. You scoop it up with paper and toss it out the window. You wonder if it made it or landed on its back and struggled till death.

Your new roommate rests in your office. He lost his job and needed a place to stay. He’s more thankful than your relatives. You ask him what his favorite meal is. Chicken alfredo, he says. The dish always makes you sick, but you prepare it.

He eats so quickly you’re unsure if he chews. You have a few bites because if you have more, you’ll live in the bathroom for the next two days. You ask him if he wants your plate. He says it’s okay even though you know he’s hungry. You push the plate toward him and walk away.

Somewhere in Maine, your ex-fiancée is collecting stamps and opening a florist shop. She hates men but also hates to sleep alone. She talks to herself while she does chores and sings off-key. She doesn’t care …