Edward Miller

A Letter to His Brother Theobald in Albuquerque

So yesterday we went looking for furniture. Something for an upstairs bedroom. You know
me, Theo. How can a good husband refuse? Around and around we go, one vast showroom
after another. Late in the day we arrive at a Maxwell Design Gallery, last stop on the tour—
a concrete and glass structure marrying brutalist style with Kardashian flair. Inside, we idle
our way along aisles reminiscent of the upside-down sketches of MC Escher and are soon
joined by our guide, Marie, a compact, bustling orb of a woman in kitten heels and canasta
glasses. Such fast friends we become. She wants to know all about us. Our needs, our desires.
Leather or fabric. Soft or firm. To recline or not to recline. That’s the question, really.
Although ending it all does cross my mind. A lone report behind the arras. Marie’s very
understanding. She and the missus are getting on. Chatting away like old times. The blood’s
in the water. I check my watch again. We’re looking for a convertible sofa, Nan says. Maybe
a futon. Something for overnight guests. I fix Marie with an affable smile, and then explain.
Normally, I say, we just ask them to sleep in their cars . . . Remember Apollo 13? When the
ship went behind the moon and lost radio contact? That’s what follows. That’s what it’s
like. Radio silence. Marie stares at me like an owl and then swivels her attention to Nan.
Oh my, she says. He’s f u n n y, isn’t he. They resume their earnest conversation.   

—

Drop me a line sometime. We’re not going anywhere.

Walter

Edward Miller teaches writing at Madera Community College. Included among his areas of interest are outsider art, street photography, and the American vernacular.