The cholesterol study ended and the next day he was hungry again, glaring at the diners through restaurant windows on Halsted, yanking at the collar of his thin, incompetent coat. Only October and already too cold; just the next day and hungry again. The human body–a bad design–always about to die, and nothing in the sky but cracked slate.
“I thought you’d like to know,” she said. “There’s a new study starting–no meals but you get 150 bucks. They can’t get enough subjects. I can write down the names for you.” Pretending to be caring. He stared at her, didn’t reply. She stared back. “Or I can mail you the information,” she said in a crisp, knowing, know-it-all tone. “Give me your address.” Daring him.
“Sure, come on.”
“Psychiatry.”
“You should’ve gone into plastic surgery.”
She tried to not look startled. “Well, because maybe I could help you.”
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She licked the side of his neck and he scratched her wiry ears, got her Mighty Dog out of the glove compartment. Mighty Dogs had pull rings: you didn’t need a can opener. Sliced Beef in Gravy was her favorite. He found her blue bowl under the seat, dumped the food in, and tried to get some reading done before the evening light was gone. He reread a passage from Joseph Butler:
