Drunk, Henry and Georgia admired the subway fauna. “That’s Lenora,” he said, indicating the rat on the rails, “and that one is Charles.” Knowing the species would last longer, Georgia wanted to name the cockroaches. Henry drew the line at anything with an exoskeleton.
“What if dinosaurs drew the line at anything that gave live birth?” she said.
“Don’t scare me like that,” he said.
It was Georgia’s first date after a bad marriage. Henry was an intern at her office. He was too young to tell the difference between twenty and thirty. What he could tell the difference between was when no meant no, and when no meant text me later.
The idea was to drop her off. When they got to her door he told her it would be irresponsible to head home; there was a severe weather warning. She stuck her head out the window to catch the first flakes on her tongue while Henry’s tongue tried to make something more intimate melt.
—
In her dream she was drinking the last bottle of Pepsi Blue in existence. A man with corn for teeth spiked it with rum. She woke up knowing she had finally conceived.
—
The snow hurt her eyes next morning. Henry wouldn’t get out of bed. She stole fifty dollars from his wallet, pulled his mittens over her shoes, and made the first prints on the sidewalk toward Duane Reade.
When she came back he was making a snowman in front of her place with bare hands. He introduced her to Raymond, who had a penny-stippled smile. Georgia said hello, and punched the change out of Raymond’s mouth.
(Click through to see Rick Peters’ film work.)
