(Or, why I don’t borrow books from my mother anymore)

Dave is angry.  I don’t know when he became angry.  Maybe he became angry at ten past five, or maybe at quarter past five.  He’s not saying anything, but I know he’s angry.  I wish the sun was out.  “I like the sun,” I say to Dave, but he doesn’t say anything in response.  Maybe the sun makes him angry.  He says something, but I don’t hear it.  Why does the sun make him angry?  The sun is nice.  I remember being a child, playing with the snails on the pavement.  The snails were slimy and sticky.  I liked the snails.  I like the sun.  Dave is angry.

Dave has ragged nails.  They look like the edge of a saw.  The French word for “nails” is “ongles.”  I tell Dave this, and he gives me a funny look.  Dave is angry.  Last night I had a dream that Dave’s nails turned into saws and broke free to slice up anything they liked.  I tell Dave this, and he doesn’t say anything.  And then I remember that Dave has actually been dead for twenty years.  Fancy me forgetting that!