82.

“God dammit!” she hisses, plucking the charcoal-black-up-until-thirty-seconds-ago piece of bread from the toaster. Around the corner, her father hacks and wheezes in the living room armchair, his aged morning chorus a time bomb for the rest of her day; she ignores the knife’s shaking in her hand, slathering butter and jam across another inoperably burnt five-grain face. Meanwhile the old man’s foot itches, has not stopped itching for five years, smothers his mind in nothing but bone-deep, insufferable itch — the foot, like hunger itself, lacking. They eat at the coffee table, their crunch-chew-crunch a screaming voice between them.

grh

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s