Fiction | June 01, 2009
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“That was Matthew,” he says. “He’s in jail. He said last night-whoever he was with, somebody new, I didn’t recognize the name-I don’t know. He doesn’t remember much. He said they were drinking and then they were fighting and now he’s in jail.” We’re facing each other across our cluttered kitchen, Joe with the phone and me with a wooden spoon, silent-two people who are rarely silent together. Hot oil splatters the back of my hand, and I move the pan off the heat.
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