Nonfiction | August 19, 2021

Town Overture

Dave Zoby

At five AM I smell coffee through the floorboards. Carter only drinks organic. He set up his own kitchenette down there. I hear the clink of his spoon against his ceramic coffee mug. I hear the shower come on, and after the shower, I hear him speaking on his phone to his wife, Jane. It’s still dark outside, and the wind is up. I scatter two scoops of kibble into my dogs’ metal bowls. They knock against me trying to get to their food. I crawl back in bed, hoping Carter will slip out into the frosty Wyoming morning without speaking to me. But it is not to be.

“Hey, man,” he says just outside my bedroom door, “Can you take me over to Miguel’s to drop off my truck?”

“When?”

“I’d like to get it over there this morning so he can get my brakes done before the weekend.”

Carter is smiling, holding his coffee cup close to his face. It’s a one-of-a-kind piece he picked up from the community college’s annual art sale.

“Yeah, I’ll do it.”

I throw back my sheets and pull on my jeans.