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The friend says, I think I should go. Janice is probably worried.
The woman says, No, you should stay here. There’s going to be stew and your wife doesn’t strike me as the worrying sort. No, I’m sure the darling is just fine. I’m sure she is home alone and dancing naked and having a fine old time. I’m sure she hasn’t a care in the world. You mustn’t worry because, after all of that worry, what good does it do?
The friend says, She hasn’t been feeling well.
The woman says, She’s a free spirit. That’s all. It’s normal. People let you know when they don’t feel well. They complain. Certainly your wife would. She doesn’t strike me as strong or silent.
The friend says, This is a bad time. I should go. I’m drunk.
The woman says, Yes, indeed. You are drunk. You are often drunk. But it doesn’t matter. None of us can understand what liquor does to a body, though we are pretty sure it makes you drunk. Listen. I want you to stay. So does Charlie Stewman. We both want you to stay. This is not something we are afraid of. We might live in fear like everyone else in the world, but this we are not afraid of. We don’t care that you’re drunk. Have another, please. Make yourself at home. Don’t you want him to stay, darling?
The man says, I don’t believe it.
The woman says, Yes, of course you do. See? We both want you here. It’s always better when someone’s watching. A third party, someone impartial. Someone who can report the goings-on, someone who can testify. A witness. Be a witness. This is how it should be and you both know I’m right.
No one responds to this. No one takes a drink of wine.
The three sit around the table like this for hours, days, years.
The stew remains in the pot, unstirred.
The car is still parked on the street in front of the house and will remain there indefinitely.
The man’s father will be dead in less than a month. Such is the nature of cancer, particularly when it has spread to the brain.
Outside, no one passes by, either on foot with dogs or in cars or buses.
There are birds flying around, though, a flock of starlings, flitting from tree to tree.
The author gratefully acknowledges Steve Gillis, Dan Wickett, Michelle Dotter, Michael Seidlinger, Peter Markus, David McLendon, and Wikipedia.