We stand, hands on hips, It’s supposed to fit in there? he says. I motion towards the yard and say, there’s nowhere else to put it. Together lifting, him screaming, we throw it in the trash can. It swirls around the plastic and sinks to the bottom, unraveling and filling the can with its scarred circle, but still peeking over the lip, eyeing us. Allen flips it off with both hands, like he really means it. We sit on the porch, passing a cigarette between us. I say, Hell of a storm last night. Holding his back and rubbing his eye, he says, Sure was.
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