It was a pretty thought, one that didn’t include his mother.
She sat in the living room all afternoon, glued to the TV.
The dramatic music from her soap operas drifted up through the floor boards to haunt me in the study. I couldn’t think with the noise, could barely concentrate on my story, but I didn’t want to leave the computer for fear of her calling Lee again. So I got a blanket and pillow from the bedroom and stretched out on the floor, making sure the door was locked to keep her out.
I stared at the patterns the sun made on the ceiling; long slices of light slanting in between the blinds, and told myself I should be writing. “I need to write,” I said out loud, but the words had a useless, hollow ring to them. Instead of working on my story, I watched tiny motes of dust dance in the air above my nose with each breath I took.