He came in distraught and ranted for several minutes. Then he fell on the floor and rolled until he’d broken the coffee table and slid beneath the sofa.
I didn’t know what to do. I poked him with a broom handle, but it was like pushing a sack of beans.
I sat down over his head so we could have a conversation. I punctuated my statements with little bounces on the weak springs. I could not make him responsive.
She knocked on the door. She was not at all what I expected. There was something disjointed about here, as if she had outgrown her skin but had yet to shed it.
She had scrubbed make-up from her face hastily amid tears. Her hair was pulled back. Her dress was torn. She had broken the heels from her shoes and walked awkwardly on what remained.
She asked me, without pause and with too much privilege (in my opinion), to lay off. She did this with a hand on my sleeve just above my wrist. She seemed to have expressed all her intentions to me in just that simple gesture.