by underswansea


It was two in the afternoon. They were drunk. Sitting in lawnchairs in the front yard. Screaming at each other. All the neighbours could hear. It didn’t occur to them nor did they care.

She said, “You fucking asshole how dare you question my devotion to you. I have been with you through so much shit. He’s just a friend. Are you saying I can’t even talk to anybody?”

He said, “Listen bitch, I don’t need x-ray specs to know when you are fucking around. All I ask is hide it better. Give me the fucking courtesy, for christ-fuckin-sakes!

It went on and on. They kept swigging beer, smoking cigarettes, their asses firmly rooted in the patio furniture. Their body language was passive, considering their verbiage. He even took time out of his tirade to lean over and light her cigarette.

Every now and again someone would walk by on the street, trying to keep eyes forward, stepping high and quiet as if to avoid a nest of wasps.

He’d yell out a greeting, “Beautiful day!”

The walker would concur, picking up pace.

She would yell after him, “Couldn’t ask for a nicer September.”

Then a few moments of silence would pass between them and they would start up again.

Bishop had seen it a hundred times before. It would always end up physical, either fucking or fighting.

This time it was the former. By four in the afternoon they had moved inside.

It surely was a nice September. All the windows in the trailer park were open. The neighbours could hear him and her grappling for flesh yelling, fuck this and suck that.

Later they would head to the bar and start the cycle over.

Bishop wondered how many more nights they would have before a frost. The tomatoes were ripening on the vine. He was on her side; you couldn’t ask for a nicer September.