Slapboxing with Jesus

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The next morning I was still scratching my nuts, for hours; in the afternoon I called Lianne; I was fiending. When I asked for her, Ray stopped flipping through television channels long enough to whisper, — What are you thinking?

She sounded like sleep; it was a Wednesday afternoon. Outside, Brooklyn traffic was turned on: boys screamed tag or bounced balls against concrete; girls were laughing. Around here, even if it wasn’t funny, girls were laughing at something. She didn’t recognize my voice. Ray had the sound up, loud, and wouldn’t lower it, so I was screaming. It had been some time.

— Oh, she sighed. Whassup, Sean.

I laughed. — Damn, it’s been seven months, you could sound a little happier to hear from me.

— I’m sorry, she said, it’s not you. Work’s got me standing eight hours a day. So why I haven’t heard from you in forever?

— Just living, I told her, moving my hands to emphasize the first word not the second.

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