He seldom sleeps through the night, instead drifting in and out of two to three hour blocks, waking, walking around, stepping outside for some air and staring at the stars. Two nights ago he went to bed at nine but was up again at midnight, sitting on the couch watching three hours of Law and Order.
“You didn’t wake up once last night,” I say.
“I know,” Imaginary Keith says. “Must have been all that TV last night. Law and Order sometimes reminds me of old times.”
“Good times?”
“No.”
The rain has begun again in Oregon. October is an off and on, indecisive affair, sunny one hour, drizzly the next. I only mention this because I remember Imaginary Keith sitting there on his couch years ago, watching that show with that pained look on his face while his relationship tried hard to mimic Oregon Fall weather. It was hot that summer in the house, but he’d brought the television out onto the front porch and watched from there, bugs swirling around the screen in the dark. Law and Order. That sound between scenes seemingly aimed directly at him, counting off the scenes as my friend suffered through time. Watching him agonize there on the front porch that summer taught me how slow an hour can pass for a man who knows his wife is off with another man. We passed the time blending margaritas.
“Hey, look. Harry’s here.”
Sure enough. Harry’s red truck moves towards the barn, trailer in tow. You have to love old men for their ability to simply show up because they need something to do.
“I hope those two cows load easier then the last two,” I say.
“Me too,” Imaginary Keith says, even though he hadn’t helped. “Me too.”