“It’s your brother.” She began.
I picture him in his underpants, bottle in hand, raging at the moon.
“What else could it be?”
“He’s got a gun.”
I remember him taking his first steps, arms out for balance, chubby legs baby of the family… come on Bobby…. stumbling and falling towards me.
Not a car owner, see, I pedal at speed up a steep gradient into a sky of blackened ice; or so it appears to me. Phone ringing hard. Still. Some call me lonely.