Entry #100

Man In The Moon
by Jack Hardway


The moonlight hit him full in the face through the window. Onny squinted, opened his eyes, looked up and out at it. Big, hulking, cloud-framed moon that looked as if it would fall out of the sky under its own weight and crush him, end-of-the-world moon.

He sat on the bed and lit a cigarette, smoked it down fast. She was still on the couch, the syringe was still beside her. Sleeping or dead, couldn't tell.

He walked through the two-room flat to the fridge. The salisbury steak dinners were still in the freezer. He pulled them out, shoved them in the oven, cranked up the gas, smashed a roach, wiped his hand on his shirt. They were celebration dinner for the big score, but they had gone through the snow fast and passed out, him on the bed. He went back to the window and sat. The man in the moon looked back at him, smiling or laughing, hard to say.

He wasn't hungry anymore. He put another smoke in his mouth, brought up the Zippo. Smelled the rotten eggs, the gas. Goddam pilot light out again.

Your steak dinner'll never cook that way, the man in the moon said inside his head. Smug bastard.

That's all right. Onny felt good, clean, just fine. He thumbed open the lid of the Zippo. You can call it whatever you want to, Onny Slovik knows it's hamburger.