im·paled
pierced with a
sharpened stake through the body, as for torture or
punishment
The
sun still rose and set outside Olie’s house, but he didn’t
pay it much mind anymore. For three weeks now, the curtains
had been drawn—what was left of them, tatters really. Olie
had to wind the scraps around the rods and then he dragged
out every comforter and nailed them four-square over the
windows. The house was a tomb.
Olie blocked out every
distraction, would hardly rise from his recliner to eat or
piss or coach a comb through his greasy hair. Ginny had
said, “There’s a perfect word for you…” right before she
stepped off the porch, and the hell if Olie was gonna let
her have the last word. It was in there, hiding somewhere
between
A, a and
zy·mur·gy,
between page one and page sixteen hundred and ninety-two of
Webster’s precise, easy-to-read definitions. One perfect
word. Damn you, Ginny.
