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Friday night it’s rentals we want—videos for the kids, for the ticking void between now and when they finally sleep. Come to find our store’s going out of business, small fish about to be eaten by Blockbuster. Amir, the Iranian behind the counter says he’s sorry, I will miss you, he says. Now I’ll never hear the whole story of his fleeing the Ayatollah and I’m worried what’s going to happen to him until he tells me of finishing school, his degree in sonography, weekend shifts already secured at St. John’s. While the children fleece the aisles for vintage Bugs and Roadrunner, we talk of wars—the endless loop of destruction playing across the world’s crumbling theatre. My husband pays for the tapes, wrapped in their sun-faded jackets, and we’re gone. Some relief—the picture of our friend in days to come, leaning in the dark over a woman’s expectant belly: fluorescents dimmed and all heads cued to view an exam room’s glowing monitor. I see his hand travel the oiled dome of skin, track limbs and feet nesting below. Then the tiny heart seed amplified, sounding out its steady code—the faint commotion of life beating on. Copyright 2006 by Michelle Bitting
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Michelle writes: