2/28/2023 0 Comments The heat of battle“I remember when we used to shower together,” he said to her long, finely grooved back. She stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray on the bedside table next to her. Margaret was thirteen years younger, and she knew it. Major Turnbuckle was forty-nine years old, a damn tricky age if ever there was one. They lived in a high-rise apartment building in Miami Beach, the Atlantic Ocean nineteen floors down. “Apparently not,” was his reflective response. “Your failure in life, the death of all your hopes, the utter hopelessness, in fact, of this very moment and all others to come.” “Making too much of what, exactly?” he asked. Once again, it had been a failed mission on the major’s part. Margaret’s breasts hung outside the sheet. They were smoking cigarettes in the rumpled bed. “Perhaps you’re making too much of it,” was Margaret’s distant reply. “A pile of discarded metal,” he said to his wife, Margaret, in the infernal heat of the morning, “that’s all I am.” MAJOR TURNBUCKLE stared down the cylindrical hollow of his life like the barrel of a burned-out bazooka.
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