He go up on the porch and put his hand on the door. He watching her back out the driveway, she watching him standing there half naked. All this foolishness over a little trip to Big Star. She shake her head while she backing out the driveway. It almost like he ain’t even expecting her to come back. She almost laugh at this. Ain’t nothing even open this late but bars, and she ain’t going to none of them, no ma’am. She see him watch her again, and then she see him step inside. What he need to do. Go on back to bed, get him some rest. He got to go to work in the morning. All she got to do is sleep.

She turn the wipers on to see better. The porch light shining out there, yellow light showing rain, it slanting down hard. It shine on the driveway and on Randy’s bicycle and on they barbecue grill setting there getting wet. It make her feel good to know this all hers, that she always got this to come back to. This light show her home, this warm place she own that mean everything to her. This light, it always on for her. That what she thinking when it go out.

The Rich

Mr. Pellisher works at the travel agency, and he associates with the rich. Sometimes the rich stop by in the afternoon hours when the working citizens have fled the streets to punch their clocks. The rich are strangers to tue in 6:57 out 12:01 in 12:29 out 3:30. Mr. Pellisher keeps his punch clock carefully hidden behind stacks of travel folders, as if he’s on straight salary. As if he’s like the rich, free of the earthly shackles of timekeepers. He keeps a pot of coffee on hot for the rich, in case the rich deign to share a cup with him, even though Mr. Pellisher pays for the coffee himself.

But the rich don’t drink coffee in the afternoons. The rich favor Campari and soda, Perrier, and old, old bottles of wine. The rich are impertinent. The rich are impatient. The rich are rich.

Mr. Pellisher can see the rich coming from his office window, where he pores over folders of sunny beaches and waving palms, of cliff divers and oyster divers. The rich arrive in Lincolns white and shimmering, hubcaps glittering like diamonds. They are long and sleek, these cars the rich drive, and clean. No one has ever puked on the floormats of a car belonging to the rich. Empty potato chip bags and candy wrappers are not to be found—along with Coke cans and plastic straws—on the car seats of the rich. If they are, they were dropped there by the rich.