Tag Archives: Morgan Pile

“Animals” by Morgan Pile

Adam had procured from the crowded kitchen two Tervis Tumblers and a full bladder of wine––that is, box wine without the box. He held it up like an anesthesiologist preparing an IV. Jane held out the cups for him to administer the pour.

“Remind me again why we’re here,” she said.

“Really? You want to see him more than I do. You practically dragged me.”

Well. She wanted to see him. She couldn’t deny that she wanted to see him. She’d taken her father’s car from the garage without permission, then silenced her phone against his calls just to be there, infractions she’d committed knowing full well what they would cost in terms of basic freedom. She’d viewed the inevitable punishment as a necessary trade-off for her happiness. But the current scene was enough to erode her confidence in the exchange. Summer kids in freshly pressed khakis, sundresses and whale pants had taken over Lucas’s mother’s living room.  Lucas was nowhere to be found.

Adam cleared his throat at two Lacoste t-shirts edging into his space. It was a big season for Lacoste, you could already tell.

“I don’t like these kids,” he said.

“You don’t know them,” Jane said, though she secretly shared the sentiment.

“Oh, I know enough.  I know what they’ve done. They’re animals.”

It was already happening. The resentful edge Adam got each summer, which swelled and shrank with the population. All islanders had it to some degree. Jane had it. But Adam’s was deep in his bones, passed down from generations.

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