PUSHING AND SHOVING AS PEOPLE DO

He is yelling about something that has relatively little to do with pizza. Fucking pepperoni. Fucking crust. Fucking sauce from a can. And she is instead of yelling back drowning garlic with welts of tears that drip miserably down an always unnoticed face. And he tears on with o yea and that's right and you bitch and you shit and you you you that's right that's right that's right. And her melting face continues to drip drop in big leaves to the hollow tiles below.

And there is a fly on the sideboard trying towards the sun. Moving pointedly towards the warmth. Knowing it is winter. Knowing it is cold. Knowing it is on the last legs of something that wasn't even specifically great or otherwise interesting. Simple attempts. Searching out residual heat.

And there's an after mass that isn't even nice or satisfying but is instead still violent and pushing with skin and teeth and mashing nails on other nails both fighting back against one another. There is shoving and the turning of backs. Something perhaps keen about the struggle but on the whole unsatisfying. And sleep shows that it is over and will only continue on again if tomorrow brings the same kind of gray weather and cold.

And the fly is still now on the boards on the side. Never making it to the heat. Never arriving. Always traveling. Like the baby who is on the way. Traveling himself down tubes and through veins. Relatively little to do with anything except maybe nature and the unimaginative way of science and the human body. Pushing and shoving as people do.