There’s asphalt in the curtains. It silts the pillows of the couch Sid knows too well and powders the rug by the door he cannot get his wheels across. That screen door should be sifting summer, a baleen sieve of sun. But the federal stimulus has come round to Sid’s neighborhood. Now men must the road all day and have been for weeks. Since before the accident.
Asphalt brings company. Depression is a shy girl who waits by the stairs or lingers over the kitchen sink, Sid’s bath. She won’t come in and introduce herself. Sid’s not sure if he wants her to.
His crutches stand guard beside the couch. For the first time he notices their circular notches where the interior shaft locks into place. They look like phases of the moon on an almanac. Only these have height numbers next to each moon. His tell a lie that takes two inches away from him.
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