The sun sets down on the freeway-- the day has been rough, violent, and short. The cars speed past the hidden bloodshed, oblivious to the scenes of criminality and depravity; after all, it is not their life.
The radio jingles with deep melodic tunes-- she has sunglasses on, dark brownish blonde hair, and shifty pale skin. She is slightly overweight-- she's in her thirties and does not exercise, and she works inside all day, so there's a soft flabbiness to her build.
She is not unattractive; she is not Venus either. The air conditioning is blazing inside the car, a Toyota something. The car is mostly clean, except for a few bottles of Nestea in the back. Under her mirror is an ornament she bought in Costa Rica, a little ball with the rainforest draped all over; she loves it, despite the tackiness.
She drives to the exit. There are old industrial buildings and unused office space here; the whole place is a wasteland of vacancy and decay. There are many Mexicans walking the streets-- immigrants mostly, who have found the area cheap and suitable to live in. They are strong, small, and sturdy; their tanned brown bodies glint underneath the sun.
The Spanish on the signs, along with the smattering of Korean and Vietnamese, makes the place seem somewhat foreign. She drives past the words and weird symbols and over speaker phone, asks her husband what he wants today.
He says he wants to eat out, but she won't hear it. "I just went shopping on Saturday," she says. "There is no way we're eating out."
He tells her he doesn't really care-- he never really cares. She drives past the intersection where a month earlier a gang shooting had taken place. She wasn't involved in that investigation, but she had heard from her colleagues that it had been the spark that ignited the recent outbreak of violence. All the shootings that had been taking place were a direct result of the intersection killing.
The melody changes into a voice. "...in Cherry Hill, another gang shooting has taken place. Three men, aged eighteen to twenty-four, were gunned down in a local restaurant by two men suspected to be members of a rival gang--"
"M-38," she says out loud. M-38 was the gang responsible for many of the shootings; they had provoked the violence by killing several Cherry Hill Mafia at the intersection that lone month ago.
"The escalating violence has been attributed to disputes between rival gangs in the area. The Cherry Hill Police Department states that, 'the shootings can be attributed to one thing and one thing only: control of the drug market'. According to the CHPD and local high schools, 'drugs are the number one reason why the community is experiencing an all time record high of murders and dropouts'."
She likes the news story. But then it ends and fades to commercials. She switches back to the melody.
She arrives home-- it is dark outside. She locks her car and enters her two floor cookie cutter. She smells pasta. "I'm home," she announces. She walks into the kitchen. "Cooking today? Really?"
He smiles; like his wife, he is also slightly overweight, actually more so. He has a fading brown head, but a thick, scroungy beard. His dark blue eyes complement hers. "I wanted to cook today," he says. "For a change."
She shuffles through the mail. Bills, bills, junk mail. She puts them down and groans. "God, I hate bills!" She sits down at the small round table and starts to rub her eyes. "Why did we have to buy this house!"
He brings out two plates of pasta and places them on the table. "Ally, what did the doctor say?"
She shakes her head. "It's negative. He says that we need to get tested, so we can know who needs the help." He gives her a bottle of Nestea. He sits down with a stern expression on his face. "Did you schedule anything?" he asks.
She shakes her head again. "No. It's so expensive, like two thousand dollars. I want to wait until we pay off everything else."
"Ally, you know that--"
"Look, we don't have the money for it--"
"We'll have to sacrifice--"
"No. We're not sacrificing anything! Why are you in such a hurry? I still have time-- I'm not even at that stage!"
He is quiet. The two study their pasta and remain quiet during the meal. After, he watches television and she washes dishes. There is disquietude in the air; he tries hard to escape into the game; she thinks about the day and her career.
She slips into a loose t-shirt and a pair of sweats. She brushes her teeth and turns on the bedroom television. Her favorite show, Project Runway, is on. She turns on the air-conditioning in the room and flings herself on the bed. Over the course of an hour, she is lost in the fantasy of reality; she forgets everything and only knows the petty drama of the screen.
