There are 3 things he told me to do before he left... i can remember 2 of them
- call doctor
- take clothes to drycleaner
but for the fucking life of me, i can't remember the third. And this is my subconscious speaking because as it stands, I've forgotten that there even was a third. The front of my mind is elsewhere. It's in between the strands of the carpet, foraging through a forest of grey wool. My fingers plough along. Inch by inch, row by row - growing a mound of fluff beneath my nails. It's like winter in Canada. I'm one of them truck-owners who every October, fits the front of my Ford with a handsome shovel and drives around the snow-bound streets, clearing the way for my fellow citizens. And I don't even do it for money. Nah, I'm a good neighbourly neighbour. And I wear a brimmed John Deer cap and a puffy vest and you could pick me up and drop me in any number of Hollywood films cause damn, I look the part. You know my wife died last year? Yep. Tragic car accident. And we never had children so now I'm all alone in the world. Me and my plough. And my neighbours, who'll occasionally invite me in for a cup of coffee or a beer and chance to watch the game.