“For gosh sakes, David,” Gerry huffed, slouching at her kitchen table, “They’re killing me with this stuff.” Her friend, framed in a battered screen propped up against a stack of books, rolled his eyes, almost imperceptibly.

“C’mon,” he said. “It’s a big anniversary and they’re throwing you a bone.”

“Forty is a lot of nothing. Hell, I’d rather celebrate on the 42nd, which is at least funnier.”

“What do you have so far?”

“Six boxes of papers and a little museum of obsolete media. I’m not even sure if I can read half the data I’ve got here.”

“That’s just your source material. What do you have so far?”

“I’ve got nothing. I’m afraid to even start writing this stuff down. I feel like there’s nothing I didn’t cover in interviews twenty and thirty years ago, and I don’t want the attention,” said Gerry, as she extracted the tea ball from her mug and let it drip for a bit.

“We all know you’re going kicking and screaming, but it’s a good story, and it’s essentially been…how long is a generation, again?” David said.

“If you start measuring in generations, I’m hanging up on you,” Gerry snapped.

“Well, it’s at least one, and maybe two.”

“Oh, go away, David.”

“Love ya, darlin’.”

“You as well.” Gerry tapped the screen to close the connection, and just sat, quietly, for a moment, listening to the dog snoring on the sofa in the next room.

Two generations? Really? It doesn’t seem like it’s been that long, or maybe it’s been longer.

© 2020 Joe Belknap Wall