There was light on in this guy—so to speak—but there wasn’t necessarily anyone home. It was a lambent look he had, like—if he was a house, like I’m saying—a lamp had been left on as salient proof to a home invader that someone may be there. Personally, I leave the TV on. It’s a killer on energy, but I’ve never been robbed. Plus, I hate coming home to a silent home.
A dim ruse or no, this nitwit had been leaving weird messages on my friend’s daughter’s answer machine. Apparently he’d recited deals from that week’s flyers, but for some reason in a sexy voice. I’d gone to where he worked at the pharmacy to get an idea about him. Asking after stationary, he’d sent me to family planning aisle. I went back for him, but he was gone.
The Internet got me to his house. When he saw me on the porch, he turned and ran into a tree. I stood over him, smacked him once. Then a second time.
“I’m sorry!” this nitwit yowled.
“For what?” I asked him.
Before he could answer, a light came on in the house across the street. I cuddled into the kid and hid behind the trunk and waited. Soon a couple came out of the house, locked the door, and drove away.
“I’m sorry for fucking everything,” the nitwit simpered into my ear, our faces pressed together. He was bleeding a lot, but not on account of anything I’d done.