Thursday, July 03, 2008
Born in a Big Blue Barn
“Were you born in a barn?” Sam growled and indicated the door with a nod of his head.
Felicia swept her leg in a rear-high kick. The door slammed with the hiss of pressurizing air. “I wasn’t,” she said. “Laverstone maternity hospital, actually. Nine pounds four ounces at four minutes past nine. My mother always said she was grateful I didn’t arrive at ten past twelve.”
“And you’re telling me this because?” Sam hardly pulled his hollow eyes from the television. He looked gaunt, unkempt, as if he hadn’t slept of eaten for several weeks. A grey, stained wife beater hung from Auschwitz collarbones.
“Because you asked.” Felicia stood behind the small black and white portable and leaned forward with her forearms on the back plastic. The television creaked under the weight, the stool it was stood upon shifting slightly. Sam’s lips pursed. “Because I never understood why being born in a barn referred to leaving a door open when hitting a barn door meant an easy target. I mean, do barns have doors or not?”
Sam looked up then, meeting her eyes with ones that had seen despair and faltered. “Barns that have doors have them and barns that don’t, don’t.” His eyes shifted again. Now kill me or leave. You’re interrupting the film.”