Ray

LIII

HE waded, then swam. Then he came back the same way, sand and tears in his eyes. I say, “You must’ve been shooting that bow for a while.”

“I been having hate in me since my wife turned lesbian or narcissistic or whatever,” Charlie says. “But look, I’ve killed this beautiful bird. Ray, you’ve got to do something for me.”

He looked like the creature of mud with a feather in his hand.

I have sympathy because a lot of the people I have loved and given to have never especially loved or given to me, and Westy is colding off like the planet, except I can’t believe it in either case.

Nothing really to say except in some reaction like on the television.

Now I am looking at the bird with the arrow through it.

And all it does is make me very sleepy.