by Ken O'Steen
I had paid no attention to the couple in the gallery during the writing. When I stopped, I overheard the woman telling the man as they approached the door, “…home to start dinner. David is always home since he was laid off.”
“I have tickets to the Lakers’ game,” he told her proudly.
I was taking stock of my momentum for another go, when I heard noise coming from the back of the gallery. Multiple voices could be heard clanging around in the hallway, then one goodbye reciprocated with two more. The footsteps heard approaching were Lila’s, and she stopped first, when she came to Bob, who was sitting on the floor across from the colored worms and wiggles.
“How do you like it?” she asked, referring to the art in front of him. When no answer was forthcoming she said to him, “Hey Bob?” When no answer came forth on the follow-up she stepped in front of him, reaching down and nudging him on the shoulder. “Wake up, buddy-Ro.” His slumber must have been profound, for it appeared to take him a couple of minutes to shake himself back to the minimal level of alertness. As Bob was rousing himself, and I was planting the pen inside the notebook and closing it up, Lila joined me.
“Alright. We can be on our way,” she said.
“How’d it go?”
“Went great. They’re going to hang me.”
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