Tired slips in. Great oaf that he is, with a sack on his back and mud on his shoes, it’s a wonder I don’t hear him coming.
It’s a wonder I don’t notice him until he’s right under my nose, taking up half the couch with his elbows and spreading legs, chewing popcorn in my ear and saying, “Why don’t we change the channel?”
“Oh, go away,” I say, kicking at the boots and sack he’s left in a heap by our feet. I find I’m already too drunk with the scent of him to mind the little shower of dust that rises up and settles in the carpet. “Go away. You’re blocking the light, and I have things to do tonight.”
“Uggh, what?” asks Tired. He’s grabbed the remote now and is mindlessly flipping the `channels: the doctor’s office I went to; the grocery list I didn’t make; carrots in the crisper that might be going bad; and, randomly, the canoe we used to paddle on the pond by the horse stable on those afternoons when the orange sun slanted and —”
“Oh, no, no, no,” I say, shaking myself loose from the grip of him. “I can’t fall into all that now, I tell you there are — ”
“— Things that Must Be Done, yes, yes.” He finishes my sentence with mock capitals, waggling his bushy eyebrows. “Important deeds! Dragons to slay! Worries to be worried! Lists to be made! Why, it could be you haven’t yet worn yourself out trying to do in your mind all the things you might possibly have to do in the world tomorrow! I see, I see! No need for the likes of me. I’ll just *go away*.”
At this he settles further into the sofa and swings his legs up on the coffee table. I stare resentfully at a hairy big toe protruding from a hole in his tube sock.
“Fine. Fine! Be that way! You big, inconsiderate lump! But honestly, there’s things I have to do tonight! Honestly! I *have* to write.”
He smiles. Yawns a yawn so big it seems to swallow me. “Well, I suppose,” he says. “Go ahead. For that, I’ll wait.”
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