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.
He enters the room as the show is ending. He takes off his shirt; his belly plops out and there is scraggly hair all over his chest. He doesn't have the energy or will to shave it. He glimpses at the television screen, shakes his head, looks at his wife, and shakes his head.
After washing up, he gets on the bed. "How is work, by the way?" he lamely asks.
The show is over, and she is tired. "It was all right I guess." She doesn't bother to return the question. He sets the alarm grudgingly.
They both lay silently, their eyes closed to different directions. The sound of the air conditioning is noticeable. He wonders for a moment, but can't find the drive to do it. She does that to him sometimes; one of her many flaws. He stares at their wedding picture; once, she used to make him horny everyday. But, it was always for the most wrong and perverted reasons. Now, they're married, and his desires seem to be suppressed. He wants something else, something more. He wants love, romance, passion, the ability to look at her and fly. He wanted to feel suave, handsome, charismatic, heroic. But with her, everything was so realistic and rational, nothing was left to higher tendencies. Not that she was a total cold bitch; she was female in many aspects. But she didn't endear him in ways that he liked in a woman; he wanted a woman like his high school sweetheart, now married to a mid-level office hack somewhere in boring suburbia. He wanted someone that had her looks, her caring personality; he missed her, the experiences. But now he was rambling onto a different and nonsensical tangent...
The morning is a rush against time. She worked so far away-- all the way in the city. The freeway is hell this time of day. To cope with the boredom and wait, she listened to podcasts. But sometimes that got dreary, so she would just dream and imagine something.
The Courthouse is busy as usual, with the flurry of people and paperwork making way in and out. She flashes her badge and skips the security check-- the guards know her well enough that she doesn't really have to flash her badge. But she does it because the people in line see it, her flash of power, and are forced to recognize, that she is someone to reckon with.
She enters her office-- actually her and Thurber's office. Thurber, a tall, wiry man with dirty blonde hair, somewhat older, is her fellow prosecutor. "Mrs. Lange, the witness will be coming at twelve. Could you prepare the deposition?"
She places her things on the floor next to her desk and scrounges for a pen. "When do you need it by?" she asks.
He looks amazed. "By twelve. I hope you've got the template and everything--"
"Oh, yes I've got everything, I just wanted to know."
He walks out of the office and into the hallway. Sometimes, Thurber can be very annoying, she says to herself. Very annoying.
The room is cold when she enters. Thurber is sitting next to the defense attorney; they are chatting quietly. The young witness, a scruffy looking black thug, sits alone, silent. She stares at him intently; he stares at her with the same intensity. His eyeballs stick out; they are so white compared to his face.
