“Oh really, I shouldn’t…”

“You kidding me? You’re not going to make me eat alone. You wouldn’t do a thing like that…”

“Really, I’m not in the mood. Please. I won’t eat any.”

I saw right away that there was no sense arguing. It would be like beating my head against a brick wall. I watched the eggs slide out of the bowl and make their way one by one toward the drain, while my stomach growled. But I got a hold of myself and washed the bowl out without making a fuss. She smoked a cigarette and looked at the ceiling.

I spent what was left of the afternoon on the porch fixing the motor from the washing machine. At the end of the day, seeing that all was calm-she was just reading a book-I went in and put the water on. I tossed in a handful of rock salt, tore open a package of spaghetti, and went back out on the porch I crouched down in front of her.

“Betty, is something wrong?”

“No,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”

I stood back up, folded my hands behind my head, and swept my eyes over the horizon. The sky was red and clear, promising winds for the next day. I wondered what kind of crap could have jammed the machine up.

I turned back to her, bent my knees, and leaned over. I ran a worried finger over her cheek.

“I can see that something’s not all right…”

She gave me the same hard look that had shaken me up a few days earlier. She lifted herself up on one elbow.

“You know a lot of girls who don’t have a job? Who don’t have a cent to their name, who are stuck in some retarded one-horse town, and who can still smile about it?”

“Shit, what difference would it make if you did have a job, a little cash in the bank? Why are you getting bent out of shape over a stupid thing like that?”

“Plus, I’m getting fat. I’m going to pot in this hole!”