Brian Keene Terminal

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delivery guy had told them. The most boring shit in the world, and usually I
tuned it out, but not then. Not this time. I wanted to listen, wanted to hear
it all. Wanted to know every detail. Wanted her to know that I loved her and
that I was really interested in what she had to say.
The phone rang, interrupting her story of what happened when the lottery
ticket machine broke down. We both looked at it.
It s probably my mom, she groaned.
I reached for the phone. She s going to wake T. J. up, calling this late.
I know. I ve told her.
I picked it up on the third ring, and said Hello?
There was a pause, followed by an electronic whir, and then a nasal, female
voice that I didn t recognize.
Hello? I said again.
Hello, may I please speak with Mr. Thomas O Brien?
Whatever you re selling, we re not interested. Put us on your Do Not Call
list.
I m not selling anything, sir.
Then why are you calling?
Are you Mr. Thomas O Brien?
I sighed, exasperated.
Yes. Now who the hell are you?
Mr. O Brien, I m calling from Gulf Financial Credit Services, in regards to
your Visa account.
I don t have a credit card with Gulf Financial.
Yes, I know that, sir. We re a collection agency, and we re handling your
account on behalf of Visa. Are you aware that your account has exceeded the
credit limit and is currently past due?
Well no shit, Sherlock. That s why we haven t been using it.
When do you plan on making a payment, Mr. O Brien?
When do you plan on getting a real job? I countered. Don t call here again,
you bitch!
I slammed the phone down, and immediately felt better. Fucking around with
telemarketers. There s nothing like it in the whole world.
Who was that? Michelle asked.
A bill collector.
Which one?
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The credit card. I sighed. Guess they want their money too, just like the
insurance company and the phone company.
Well, they ll just have to wait. We need to pay the electric company with
your next check in two weeks. Like I said before, they sent us a shutoff
notice. And don t forget, we re behind on the mortgage.
But we need that to pay for the phone. Guess I won t get the medicine after
all and don t start on me about it!
But you have to.
I don t see how. Jesus, I wish we d hit the lottery!
It s okay, Tommy, she soothed. We ll get by. We ll figure something out. We
always do. T. J. and I can always count on you.
She stood up and wrapped her arms around me. When she hugged me, I almost
sobbed. Instead, I hugged her back and bit my lip, fighting to keep my
emotions in check.
I love you.
I love you too, I whispered into her ear. I really do, Michelle. I want you
to know that.
She pulled back, giving me a puzzled look.
What s wrong, Tommy?
I shrugged, fighting back the tears.
I don t know. Long-ass day, is all. Long, long day . . .
You re tired. Let s go to bed, baby.
I nodded. My face was buried in her hair, and it smelled so good. I took a
deep breath, inhaling her scent.
Holding hands, we walked down the hall, undressed, and slipped beneath the
covers. The cool sheets felt good on my skin. We cuddled in the glow of the
television. Within minutes, Michelle was breathing softly, sound asleep. I was
always amazed at how easily she could fall asleep. I watched her for a long
time, the rise and fall of her breasts, the way her forehead wrinkled up as
she dreamed. This was when she was most beautiful.
I smiled, content.
Then I remembered I was dying. The fact popped back into my head from out of
nowhere. Most people don t think about dying, especially at the age of
twenty-five. The cop walking his beat isn t dwelling on it, even though he
knows that there s a chance it could happen to him every night. The drunken
driver isn t pondering the ramifications right before he flies through the
windshield and becomes a bloody skid mark on the road. For people like that, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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