ToXTheXMorgueX

he thinks the most when he's driving, not in the shower, or right before bed, but when he's passing gas stations which turn into suburbs which turn into hookers, eyes just as solemn as the boys behind the counter at the local grocery store, tired in a stable way, cash or check today, sir? but really thinking, what makes you sir, and me boy, but minimum wage, and then -- it really is all about the money, isn't it? (because, really, he's an intellectual, and one day, she thinks, she'll have a husband, two kids and a house, no view of the water but a nice view of the houses that do have a view of the water, although they'll

There's chemistry in the business, just not from this side of the uniform; they're having their dinners on their Saturday nights, fingers grapevining around wine glasses, feet touching under the table. In the corner a man plays guitar, finger-picking his way around the noise of the bar crowd. Men move their chairs around the table to be next to their lovers. They are too close to notice as I bring them more wine, too close to really be listening to each other. At a neighboring table, a woman taps her glass pointedly. I pretend not to notice. In the back, behind the curtain, the radio meshes with the sounds from the restaurant. The man with

There is something mechanical about it – not at all like clockwork, but more like flashing red lights and spiked metal gears, the sound of heavy boots on the pavement tapping out the morose rhythm we've grown to love; I pay, you'll pay, I pay, you'll pay. Saturday afternoon, and the mail is here sealed with wax in yellow envelopes; slow-moving minds are grinding away, sucking the dust in through open nostrils, taking notes on paper airplanes to toss away – asleep, awake, asleep, awake. This house has walls perfect for bouncing sound off; he befriends the echoes with soft words – they don't talk back. His