two dialogues

“But I wasn’t expecting you to shoot him.”

“Well what else was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, but now we’ve got—dammit Henry—now we’ve got a dead body on—”

“Look, it isn’t as bad as it seems.”

“You can’t rationalize this away.”

“I’m not rationalizing.”

“Henry,” she said “Henry give me the gun.”


“Henry give me the damn gun.”

Henry threw the gun off the bridge into the water. “No.” And he bent over and started to lift the body.

“Henry, please don’t.”


“What about his family? You’ve already done so much.”

“Well, I’ve got one more thing to do.” The chest of the corpse was on the railing, with the head and arms hanging over.

“I’m not staying here.”

“It’s too late,” he said as the legs slipped, and the feet and whole corpse flipped into the water, “you’ve seen the whole thing.” He smacked his hands together as if wiping off dust. “Susan . . . I’m sorry.”

She stared at the ground, grinding her toes into the gravel. Any second now, and she would run, book it back to the minister and tell him everything.

Any second now he would grab her and kiss her with every bit of force he had.

“Henry, I don’t think you understand what you’ve done.”

“Susan, I don’t think you understand what this has done to us. I can’t think of anything that is more bonding than a secret like this.”

“You’re sick,” she said and ran.

“Susan!” He ran.

By the time he grabbed her wrist she was sobbing.

By the time she tore her wrist from his grasp she was on the ground.

“Susan, I said I’m sorry, but you’ve got to believe in love.”

She kicked him in the shins “There. You’ve got to believe in pain.”

He let out a heavy breath between clenched teeth.

“If there ...“Then she said she was married.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Yeah, and I was, like, ‘Whoa there missy.’”

“Man, I would’ve slapped your face right there.”

“Well, she would have but—can you pass the fry sauce there—she had a kid in her arms.”

“Dude, she had a kid in her hands? Of course she was married.”

“Naw, I’ve met plenty of girls who weren’t married with kids.”

“How’s your burger?”

“Not bad. Yours?”

“Yeah, it’s alright.”



“You got anything later to do?”

“Probably just go home and, you know, peace out or something.”


“Yeah . . . You?”

“I’ve got work tonight.”



The music played in the background. Some playlist off of the cashier’s iPod or something: typical suburban rock music.

“You know, I’m tired of nothing. I just go home and it’s the same thing everyday. Nothing.”


“Yeah, it’s like, well, what’s do I do with all the time and money and crap.”

“You need a vacation, man.”

“I’ve done drugs and pornography, and girls, and—and I’ve been on a trip three times already, man.”