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257 pages, Paperback
Published September 25, 2018
Around here anything can happen, and it very often does.
I don’t know if I believe in time. I mean, I don’t believe it works for me the same way it works for other people. Other people can count on today turning into tomorrow and tomorrow turning into the day after that. But I can’t count on it at all.
I can’t tell him how I’ve slowly stopped going to school, at first because everybody looked at me and now because they don’t look at me at all and it turns out maybe it’s worse that way. It’s what I wanted, but it’s worse. I can’t tell him that sometimes when I come over and we hang out, it’s been a day or two since I’ve said much out loud, and my voice sounds strange to my ears. I can’t tell him how much I want to leave or how I’m afraid I might someday, like tomorrow or the day after that. And how I’m afraid leaving might be like other things I thought I wanted and then, after I got them, it turned out I didn’t. I don’t tell him how afraid I am. Of everything. How I see danger everywhere. How sometimes when I try to sleep at night I see a roof collapsing on him at work, or the floor caving in, or I see him falling. How I see Maggie plowing the car into a tree or the river or something else that seems harmless until it’s not. I don’t tell him how sometimes I think I’m right when I’m wrong. Really right when I’m really, really wrong. And so it’s not just that I don’t trust other people. I don’t trust myself.
I don’t tell him these things so that he won’t say they’re amazing. Because Jim thinks everything is amazing. And everything is not.
An empty king can of Coors rolls by, the Winnipeg equivalent of a tumbleweed
“Because I don’t believe in love,” I saw through a mouthful of deep fried potato. They look at each other.
“What do you mean you don’t believe in it? Love isn’t like a Sasquatch. It’s existence isn’t up for debate,” he says.