All the Living. C. E. Morgan

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All the Living - C. E. Morgan

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cleared his throat, looked up once at the sky. Them's the ones that still fuck, Aloma.

      Oh, she said, a grin. Where are they at?

      We ain't got one.

      How come?

      Sold it. I already got a calf coming. Too much trouble, it was Cash's thing. I don't want no more cattle but can eat up this grass. Just lawnmowers that shit. I ain't got time for no cows right now.

      Then she and the cows walked with Orren to the barn where he gestured Aloma to remain outside while he fetched hay—he did not want her to tangle with his rooster—and then he returned, padding the outside troughs with hay and dried corn and turning the spigot so the well water came up cold and splashing brilliant into the concrete trough. Then, finally, with the cows in the pen and the sun falling, he followed her with dragging footsteps up to the house so that he too could rest and eat.

      One morning in July, as she mopped the kitchen floor, Aloma heard Orren's truck start up and when its thrumming disappeared around the front of the house instead of dropping into the field, she flung aside her mop on a wild urge and tore out the front of the house waving her arms. Orren, catching her frantic motions in his rearview, floored his brakes and the truck skiddered hard in the gravel, flung up spitting stones and dust. He'd thrown open his door and had one foot on the ground before she ran up and said, Take me with you.

      He tossed back his head. Goddammit, Aloma, he said. You like to scared me to death.

      I want to go, she said, gripping his open door.

      Sure, sure, he said. He shook his head.

      He drove across the county line and into Hansonville directly to the bank and Aloma stared out the window, her eyes clutched at everything they passed as if it all could be possessed if stared at hard enough. She was silent beside him, her mouth open slightly, her hand held tight the handle of the door. She liked everything she saw.

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