'momma, it wasnt my bullet.'
i catch sight of bear, reflected in the glass from the front door, silently stalking a fly. 'boys for pele' plays in the background while i put the hardware back on the cabinet doors i painted yesterday. i count the number of half-turns of the screwdriver it takes to get the job done, painfully aware that my arm strength is either very low, or these are particularly tough screws, with their slightly worn heads. a red car keeps screaming up and down my street, turning up more dust to cling to the screen of the front porch.
'glue, stuck to my shoes'
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