one more thing
Poor Andrew. He thought of himself as being in a Dickens novel. He'd never read one. He savoured ostracism. He purposely didn't buy gloves in the winter and walked down shopping strips in lower middle class neighbourhoods, with painfully icy hands, eyeing the family restaurants with warm, stupid YUM CHA DAILY and ALL YOU CAN EAT $12.95 signs. He paused and let the contrasting temperatures - inside, outside - sink into his punished psyche. But as he dawdled by the ATM on a stark concrete corner, a hang-out for alcoholics, who were asking a deathly pale girl for change but she had no bag or purse or pockets or change - he, with his excellent skill of loitering unnoticed, saw this girl stand at the machine, wait awhile, staring at the screen, lift her hand, take money. She walked away. He leapt the steps to the bank alcove and imitatively stared. Nothing happened.
Andrew hit his head, trying to force himself to decide between watching a possibly dysfunctional ATM, or shadowing a possible bank thief. The next day, a despondent, lumpy grey bruise would rise to the surface of the poor skin around his poor right eye. He didn't get to see where the sickly criminal went.
"Hi, ma," said Polly.
"Hi sweet," said her ma. "How are things?"
"OK, thanks, ma," said Polly, heavily, and stilted. "I got money, out of an ATM, tonight, without using, my card. I don't know, what's going on, I feel, so sick."
Her ma laughed. "Oh, silly. Are you looking after yourself? What did you have for dinner tonight?"
"I'm not hungry, ma."
"Soup again probably? You've got to have more than soup! Soup by itself isn't a meal!"
"I gotta go, ma."
"You sound flat. You go eat something substantial and get a good night's sleep."
"OK ma, bye."
"Goodnight, sweet."
Polly, with inconspicuous shaking, put the phone down. She was very cold in a sweaty kind of way. She went into the bathroom and folded a red towel and put it on the floor in front of the toilet, then knelt on it. She rested her elbows on the toilet seat and thought of nothing but whether she would dry retch or puke, or whatever her body had to do. She spat into the toilet. Then she thought: I bet... I'm pregnant. It would happen next, wouldn't it. It would happen next. Virginal and pregnant. She spat and her stomach spontaneously said goodbye to a glass of orange juice and a plain piece of toast.
Andrew hit his head, trying to force himself to decide between watching a possibly dysfunctional ATM, or shadowing a possible bank thief. The next day, a despondent, lumpy grey bruise would rise to the surface of the poor skin around his poor right eye. He didn't get to see where the sickly criminal went.
"Hi, ma," said Polly.
"Hi sweet," said her ma. "How are things?"
"OK, thanks, ma," said Polly, heavily, and stilted. "I got money, out of an ATM, tonight, without using, my card. I don't know, what's going on, I feel, so sick."
Her ma laughed. "Oh, silly. Are you looking after yourself? What did you have for dinner tonight?"
"I'm not hungry, ma."
"Soup again probably? You've got to have more than soup! Soup by itself isn't a meal!"
"I gotta go, ma."
"You sound flat. You go eat something substantial and get a good night's sleep."
"OK ma, bye."
"Goodnight, sweet."
Polly, with inconspicuous shaking, put the phone down. She was very cold in a sweaty kind of way. She went into the bathroom and folded a red towel and put it on the floor in front of the toilet, then knelt on it. She rested her elbows on the toilet seat and thought of nothing but whether she would dry retch or puke, or whatever her body had to do. She spat into the toilet. Then she thought: I bet... I'm pregnant. It would happen next, wouldn't it. It would happen next. Virginal and pregnant. She spat and her stomach spontaneously said goodbye to a glass of orange juice and a plain piece of toast.