Portmanteau I

Next up was Kathy’s voice. “I’m sick and tired of your drinking and your shit and the lying and the mess and your miserable shit…”

Fred started to get a glimpse of a feeling he didn’t want to be having. He’d had it when he hadn’t made the baseball team his sophomore year, even though his sick dad really wanted to see his son play, and when Kathy had broken up with him the first time. Complete loss—of anything that held together the fibers of whatever made up himself.

The officer had been staring at him the whole time. “See, Fred, it doesn’t have to be like that. I knew you’d come around.

I just knew it.”

“So what needs to happen?” Fred asked.

“Well, I just need to read you your rights and arrest you.”

“How is that any different?

“Believe me, it is. If you could just stand up and put your hands behind your head there. OK. Thanks. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to…” Fred felt the cold metal against his wrist, the light jostling from the officer.

He heard the clicks of the cuffs. Click. Clickclickclick.

II. When he woke up the next morning, he remembered everything. He got up and looked out the window and his car was in the driveway, fine, a little snow on the windshield. He glanced back at Kathy, still asleep, her mouth open and her round face lunging out into the air. The room was messy with clothes and a fountain drink that’d been there a week. Plastic bags. Cups filled with cigarette butts, an unopened TV. Both the door to the bathroom and the door to the living room 26