White Trash Hurricane
‘How are you getting home?’
‘I think I’ll drive.’
‘Did you stock up on food and alcohol?’
‘There should be enough to ride out the storm. How about you?’
‘I’ll stay here tonight. The building’s structurally sound and we had the generators installed last week. Better than going home. Plus, I’m drunk. Are you sure you’re okay to drive? You could stay here if you want.’
‘Thanks, but I have to feed Mildred and she’s scared of storms.’ She glanced at the swirling ball of orange and red on the screen. ‘Looks like it’s about to make landfall within the hour. I better get going.’
‘Okay. Well, drive safe. Let me know when you’re home so I’ll know you’re alright.’
‘Goodnight, Tom.’
‘Goodnight, Lucy.’
-
‘Are you two ever gonna fuck? Jesus, those fucking conversations sound like they were written for a goddamn daytime drama.’
‘And you’re a fucking Bukowski without a typewriter. At least you look like him, I mean.’
‘Fuck you and your literary bullshit. If you write like you talk you’ll be working at this fucking bar until you die. Anyway, it might be soon. Category five. Hurricane Jackson might wreck this fucking place to pieces. Then what’re you gonna do? Stay with Lucy?’
‘I don’t know, Bill. But at least I won’t have to put up with your shit anymore. Did you shut down the kitchen yet?’
‘She’s done, Major Tom.’
‘And how are you getting home?’
‘What? You’re not gonna ask me to stay here with you, too? I thought we had somethin’ goin’ here.’
‘Are you offering? You wanna go spoon on the couch with me and hold my hand?’
‘If anybody’s getting fucked in the ass tonight, it’s gonna be you by this storm.’
‘Now that’s poetic. Maybe you should be a writer.’
