#pat Where's Faith? Pat stops sweeping long enough to give me a look. Over at the Butt Farm. There's a pea on the floor that keeps escaping the broom. Bristles smash into the floor as Pat leans over heavily, and picks the pea up. She flicks it across the kitchen into the sink. I've never known any girl that wanted to spend so much time at a gay bar. I mean. I smile and settle into a kitchen chair that looks like something out of a failing 50's diner. The table used to be yellow. There's a bunch of papers and a wooden bowl and a dried-up rose in a cerveza bottle, some books, a radio with a broken antenna, a wooden napkin holder that Faith made like ten years ago, and a bunch of other crap. There's just room for my elbow and forearm to rest in front of me. Pat bangs the dustpan on the inside of the trash can under the sink. The phone rings. (2014)