What Are You Supposed to Say?
Richard put his book down on the table and tilted his head back. The bottom of his shirt jerked up and thin, black wiry hairs peeked out between two buttons. He looked at the space where the wall and the ceiling made a joint and thought of nothing in particular.
“Richard,” Luke said.
Richard blinked. He was glad to be found with an open book on his knees; the vision played to his sense of vanity. He closed his eyes and imagined how he must look.
“How are you?” Richard said, not opening his eyes.
“I’m good Richard, not too bad. Listen, the car’s around back. Let’s go,” Luke said.
Richard stood up and jammed the book in his bag. He didn’t bother to mark the page. Luke was a small man with a hatchet face and thinning hair. The gravel path that led from the front door to the back was slick from last night’s rain. A sheet of clouds blanked out the sky.
It won’t rain, thought Richard. There won’t be rain or sunshine today, only grey.
“God, this is a depressing place. Why didn’t you ever move out?” Richard said.
He immediately felt a pang of annoyance at having invited conversation. Luke didn’t look back at him or answer his question. His steps were small and delicate. If he were younger, he could’ve mocked him. Not…
