Hill Aspecting No.4

"Let's have a talk now."

"Ok."

I hate this shit, every time we have to 'have a talk' I feel all of the energy drain out of me.
Imagine your hands hanging at your sides. Your head is nodded, and you're bent at the waist, leaning forward ever so slightly. A leaden, and heavy mild torment sits in your chest, it drums a tattoo (military and dirge-like) with a slow hungarian 6/8 time signature. Now think of your hands as wine-skins, or if you need help with the image, remember back to the time at your uncle's dentist office - you could take a surgical glove (I'm not sure if they were latex or nitrile, in any case, it doesn't really matter) and blow it up like a balloon.

The fingers looked like udders.

These are your hands at your sides, the fingers are little wine bottles, corked at the tips. She wants to have a talk and the corks on strings (all 10) are yanked (with a decachorus POP) and your willingness, your humour, your patience, yes, even a little bit of your humanity spills out like ten little warm streams of urine around your feet.
You think for a moment, why am I even saying you, ME, I think for a moment of doing a Les Mis/lap it up like wine on the street because the casks broke but this isn't wine, and I'm not a rough and ready rustic member of robust french peasantry - I've been sprayed with too many chemtrails and I've been drinking too much fluoride my whole life.

"Did you have fun?"
my eyes flash to the photo or print of Christina's world. It's enough. She gets the picture, I can't even pretend to lie now.
Shit.

"Your best friend is a divorced, middle-aged loser and you actually covet his freedom. It's sick"

"You tell me then, - your definition of 'normal' is so perverse, screwed up and narrow, that there is actually no room in it for a person.

What exactly is it that you need me to do that I'm not doing? Do you want me to play golf? Do Fantasy Football? What?"
"You know - " before she can finish, the phone rings. I make sure not to look away first, but we both know who it is.

He's going to leave a message. Fuck,fuck,fuck,fuck-fuck.

"Hey Buddy, Dr. Ivanhoe here! - I was just walking Pebble and thought about the time on our little trip when you took 8 grand from your savings account so you could buy a full page ad in that local paper. Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha.....How many people went to the E.R. that night?"

Shit.