Spaces by Lou Freshwater

“March snow doesn’t fall, it dives,” Joyce said looking out the window. “It’s pretty though. And sometimes the flakes are so big and wet they look little tea doilies,” Ellen said, looking, too. “You always see the bright side, Ellen. Always. It could be snowing rat shit and you’d see chocolate chips.” “You know, Joyce, I don’t always see the world like that. It’s just that I don’t see it like you do, like some dark closet that keeps shrinking all the time.” “Whatever. There’s freedom in being a realist.” “Are you still thinking about moving back to New Jersey? Your life would be so much better if you weren’t always scraping by.” “New Jersey fucking sucks. It’s like some dredged up dystopian nightmare.” “My god, Joyce, even if we weren’t born here, and even if I wasn’t raising my two children here, that would still be an awful thing to say.” “I’m staying where I am. New York is the only place in the world that’s man enough to handle me.” “I just want you to be happy.” “How sweet.” “You know, Sis, you are right, I shouldn’t be sweet, or kind to you, I should be honest. I should say that New York doesn’t handle you it just tolerates you just like the other toxic chemicals it is forced to process day in and day out.” “Fuck you,” Joyce said, as she wrapped her arms around herself, and squeezed her eye shut in order to imprison the tear.

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