Me: “We made it.”

Tweak: “So you say.”

Last night was the Fourth of July. O’er the ramparts we watched several neighbors with too much disposable income and too few disposable fingers blow things up into the sky. The bombs bursting in air probably included thumbs. Gallantly streaming blood, I hope.

Me: “I have a fireworks hangover.”

Sleep was impossible, for all of us. But true to her warrior spirit, Tweak lay next to me all night with weapons drawn.

Tweak: “Where does it hurt – right here?”

Tweak kneads her stilettos into the tender flesh under my arm.

Me: “Jerk. You would offer a porcupine to a panda.”

Tweak: “I would if it breathed like that dog.”

I look down at the floor. Bowie-dog has finally found rest after hours of blue, white, and redneck abuse.

Me: “Last night I fed her a melatonin tucked into a beef bite.”

Tweak: “The noise was bad.”

Me: “And then I fed her a Benadryl tucked into a beef bite.”

Tweak: “Did it work?”

Me: “Sort of.”

Tweak: “No, I mean ‘Did it kill her?’”

I pull a pillow over my head in the dawn’s early light.

Me: “How do you do it, Tweak? How do you stay above the fray?”

Tweak: “Me? I’m a frayed knot.”

Me: “You’re a beef bite.”

 

5 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”