—AND IF THE MUSIC AIN’T GOOD, WELL, IT’S JUST TOO BAD, WE’RE GONNA SING ALONG, NO MATTER WHAT

 

 

String Bean 

 

 

At dinner, annoyed as hell again, his third wife said, “For God’s sake, they’re just fucking string beans. I didn’t even use oil. Can you at least eat one, make me happy for once?”

He was a human coat rack, made of flesh and blood, though it rarely felt that way. Normally it seemed as if he was the one hanging.

His third wife flung her napkin and flew from the table herself, saying, “I’m so tired of this shit, your never eating.”

He was tired of it, too. So exasperated by the ghosts slinking through his bones all these many years.

 

Her name was Jenna. The name reminded him of jelly, grape or strawberry with too much juice and sugar. They sat together at lunch that day as the squall of other students chattering filled the hollow.

Then David Davies hopped by, said, “Why are you with that fat fuck? Do you have eyes?”

She opened hers then, and he did as well.