"Why not? It's nice. The air is crisp."

"It's freezing out there!"

"Just come out and give it a whirl."

"So, you're refusing to give permission? Is that the story?"

"I don't know why you have to be going to Mexico for Christmas."

"You know what?" she says. "I hate you. I hate everything about you. I always have."

"That figures," I say, as she slams the phone in my ear. The sun brightens the plaster wall of the Masonic Temple. I'm thinking about getting to my feet. I'm thinking about telling my legs to straighten up and climb into my jeans. Sending the signal from my soggy brain to my swelly feet. I'm fishing for my cigarettes. Her voice goes off in my head like a PA system from a squad car: "YOU KNOW WHAT? I HATE YOU! I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU! I ALWAYS HAVE!"

Lost Whistle

Last night when we were sleeping

I dreamed I lost your big black dog

I searched for him through a town I didn't recognize

People on the street were selling old cracked furniture

looking broke

I tried whistling for your black dog

I tried over and over again to whistle

but something had gone wrong between my teeth and lips

the breath wouldn't channel

nothing came out but a hiss

I hunted desperately with a rising panic

maybe more for the loss of my whistle than your dog

my whistle that had long been with me since I was a kid

I blew and blew

but there was no way your dog could have ever heard it

I came to the top of a hill

out of breath

a white stucco house with an open corridor

a woman sitting there folding laundry

in neat piles

When she saw me she stood and cried out:

Charles! Charles!

but then realized I wasn't Charles

and began apologizing wildly

wiping her hands on her apron

I told her I was searching for a big black dog

but she didn't seem the least bit interested

as though she'd never heard me

just rambled on about how she talks to herself all the time now

how she can't stop talking to herself