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Something of Nothing

We watch the news and she laughs about the wars. They ways by which we legally and morally kill each other Everyday. Cleverly, she says inappropriate things to catch me off-guard. She likes to watch the shock on my face; I know it, but it comes out anyway. I gape. And then she'll laugh at me, and I know she does not really mean it-but sometimes I am certain she's evil.


She goes to work early just to brew a fresh pot of coffee for the early newspaper readers. There is only 6 of them these days. All of them are older than 50. This should make her sad, but the younger people come in during the evenings to sit with the 6 computers. As she wonders around her library, she sees them studying.


They add her to Facebook. Two or three, sometimes ten, one time 300, each month. People she doesn't know. She adds the tally up inside her head. 1029, 1030, 1031.
Sometimes she looks at their profile. Sometimes she thinks she would like some of these people; she thinks about adding them. But she doesn't. She won't.
She tells him to add them all when she's dead.
He rolls his eyes. He probably won't.

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