TM 162: "I never thought I'd say this, but..."
Thoughts come and go, in Frankie's mind, according to the temperature of the day, the weather report, the wind blowing or not, the stupid bird waking him up at ass o'clock in the morning, the prostitute blowing him in the back alley of the motel he lives in, the doughnut he finds splattered and sticky on his pillow, the pizza box that's fucking empty when he really wants a bite of it, the motel's night clerk that cowers in the corner behind his desk anytime Frankie walks by, the guys from Luxuria that he used to go out to drink with now and then, the tequila he gulps down and then has to vomit right back because Luxuria burned down, the phone booths he puts fire to because he can't call home and ask about his Dody and his child, the times he runs after Ryan and the times he runs away from her, the kisses she gives him, the kicks she places where it hurts most, the jobs he finds now and then, the packets he delivers, the guys he kills, the guys he terrifies into pissing their pants, and what Tom Hobbes thinks of him, if he thinks of him at all.
Frankie says whatever is on his mind at any given time.
Because he doesn't fucking care shit about it.
He never thought he'd say 'I love you' to anyone else after Dody, though.
And yet, he did.
Twice.
And he doesn't fucking care shit if they don't believe him or if they want something from him that he can't or won't give them.
He says what he says, and it's all damn fucking true.
275 words, Frankie Roberts, The Indian Runner
Frankie says whatever is on his mind at any given time.
Because he doesn't fucking care shit about it.
He never thought he'd say 'I love you' to anyone else after Dody, though.
And yet, he did.
Twice.
And he doesn't fucking care shit if they don't believe him or if they want something from him that he can't or won't give them.
He says what he says, and it's all damn fucking true.
275 words, Frankie Roberts, The Indian Runner