crematory

She is on a train. A man is dead. She needs to be in Rensselaer by five to be home by half past to be dressed and ready by six. She will be late to Albany, and so will his duffel. He won’t be.

Better never than late. He won’t get to explain to a short, hot beau why he broke standing dinner plans, again. He isn’t going to wear concealer and long sleeves. He doesn’t have to phone home. Instead, that privilege will be soon bestowed upon one of Albany’s (Boston’s? Amtrak’s?) finest. Death is the superlative excuse, the most airtight alibi, truly, the greatest reward. What to do when you’re dead: nothing. Cradle and grave, there is the homogeny of someone cleaning up your messes while you lie and then lay idly by, and one day she will agreeably be you.

Until then, she can only pray for such contentment. Maybe somebody will notice? Just not him. For the love of God, not him.

The little hand is on the five.

Forayem

You are sitting on the steps in front of a tower of dormitories you've never seen before. It's cold, but not cold, the mercury settling at that temperate chill, not yet warranting a winter coat, but enough to rattle your bones. Your breath hangs in the air - or is that smoke?- as you inhale desperately on the butt of a cigar past its prime, gasping for dear tobacco, dear life. Half drunk and about to get stoned, your pockets empty but for the room keys on that hipster carabiner ring and the emergency condom in your wallet, you sit on those steps, waiting for your friend, waiting forever, waiting for warmth, waiting for death, waiting for something.

But suddenly, you realize, this might be the best night of your life. So now you ponder that, really allowing the significance of such an idea to steep, brew, simmer.

And then you begin to sob. There's nothing left for you to do, but sob.

5,6 kids.

"Two Rodeo Cheeseburgers, a Whopper Junior, one eight-piece, a Double Stacker, and uh -- how many of us are there? -- six waters: the free ones, not the bottled kind."

The grandmother and the third gather condiments and napkins, then situate themselves by the window.

The minimum wage girl counts out six empty white paper cups, and nests them like so many Russian dolls. She hands the stack to the well dressed woman on the other side of the counter, unaware of the bond she shares with the two children clutching their mother's pantseam.

"mommy i wanna fill up the cups"

"no i do"

"You can both fill up the cups." The mother is diplomatic as ever.

The young girl takes the stack and un-nests them, setting six empty white paper cups on the stainless steel counter. The earnest boy checks her work: "one two three four five six cups"

"yes six cups"

"whys there six cups and theres only five of us"

The girl walks over to the table of three women, and the curious boy follows.

"mommy you got six cups but theres only five of us"

She counts to herself.

"Oh, I guess I must have been thinking of Daddy."

The little boy begins to sob.