42097609460

inside him. Puked again, and then dry heaves and the world spun
when he tried to stand. The car was close and he staggered to it.
Grabbed the vodka and drank and tried to think like Erin, but
then he was at the barbecue holding a burger covered in flies and
everyone was pointing and laughing at him.
Back to the car. Bitch had to be somewhere. She’d watch gray-hair
die. Watch them all die. Burn in hell. Burn and burn, all of them.
Carefully, he climbed in and started the car. He backed into a tree
as he was trying to turn around, and then, cursing, tore out on the
gravel, spinning rocks.
Night would soon be falling. She came in this direction, had to be
down this way. Little kids couldn’t ride far. Three or four miles,
maybe five. He’d been down every road this way, looked at every
house. No bicycles. They could be in the garage, could be parked
in fenced yards. He’d wait and she’d come home sometime.
Tonight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night. He’d stick the gun in her
mouth, aim it at her breasts. Tell me who he is, he’d say. I just want
to talk to him. He’d find gray-hair and show him what happened to
men who slept with other men’s wives.
He felt like he had been weeks without sleep, weeks without food.
He couldn’t understand why it was dark and he wondered when
that happened. Couldn’t remember when he got here exactly. He
remembered seeing Erin, remembered trying to follow her and
driving, but wasn’t even sure where he was.
A store loomed on the right, looking like a house with a porch out
front. GAS FOOD, the sign said. He remembered that from earlier,
but how long ago he couldn’t say. He slowed the car
involuntarily. He needed food, needed to sleep. Had to find a
place to stay the night. His stomach lurched. He grabbed the bottle
and tilted the bottom up, feeling the burn in his throat, soothing
him. But as soon as he lowered the bottle, his stomach heaved
again.