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Silkworm Ink

January 10, 2014

Murray said that it was time for me to leave. 
I made believe that I hadn’t heard him and he made believe I had so he went to the hall closet and got my backpack and carried it over to the sofa where I was now laying in a fetal position facing inward, my ass hanging off the front. I stayed perfectly still and he said that he’d mix us a goodbye drink and what did I want and when I didn’t answer he said, “Okay a Jack and soda coming up,” and then I had a decision to make quickly because I don’t drink bourbon and Murray knew it and it was for damn sure certain he’d bring one in if I continued to play possum. 
I’d only been living on his couch for two weeks and don’t know what precipitated getting tossed out unless that grump of a wife of his held a grudge against me for taking control of the TV remote; but where I come from it’s the couch person who gets that privilege, guest or no guest and I had explained that to Madge more than once. She was some kind of shrew, Madge was, and after the first day I stopped feeling sorry for Murray. 
I heard the refrigerator door close and the sound of ice clinking in the glasses and then the bathroom door opening. I grabbed my backpack and headed for the door, stopping only to snag the remote just as I heard the flush of the toilet. I tossed the remote in the azalea bush before heading off to visit the next couch on my list.

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