III.

Stewart is sitting on his porch with his arms crossed and one hand over his mouth looking out toward his cul-de-sac circle. His house has a perfect sightline to the entrance road because it is the deepest house on the circuit. Whenever he looks out down the road, he might as well be waiting for someone or something that is just seconds from turning the corner.

He has worked himself up into an anger at the thought of someone disagreeing with something he said. So it goes: there, just there mate, you have contradicted yourself and are now speaking utter shit. You don’t even know what you’ve said, do you? That’s a logical fallacy. Objectively speaking, mate, you are wrong. Just- no, just listen to me for a second. And the person won’t listen. Abdicate! says the person. But the person is wrong and he just showed how*. Abdicate, abdicate!* They are all saying it now because, first, it was the one person and now it is spreading. I’ve already ushered Chestle into things. Stop! His soft spot for Chestle is activated and he’s also picturing him on stage in another situation; standing some way as he would in real life. Back in the coup, Chestle is trying to sus out what they mean with their words. He is looking backward, standing, from the front row and speaking to people’s eyes rather than their whole. Stewart is red on stage; breathing out of his nose and swallowing. Usually Chestle is the one who gets red on stage. Heart of a young man with the embarrassment to match. The crowd responds well-ish. Chestle is back on his bench.

He exhales through his fingers and looks back down the road. Nothing, but maybe something soon.

Back inside his bungalow his laptop is stuck asking if he wants to update. The frustration of it has him thinking the way he has been. He will call Chestle because he’s good with these things. The man is only forty-six for Christ’s sake; he should know laptops. Stewart starts with fuming and arrives to the phone apoplectic. The wooden chair struts are painfully obvious in his back.

“-just give me one second Stew.”

“…”

“…”

He puts down his fork and has closed the backdoor on his way out. Nothing bad is happening to his day which means he is temperate and jolly in his own way.

“Stew. How can I help?”

“You know loading?”

“I think I do.”

“It’s stuck where it was before. It’s cocked up. More or less.”

“What was it before?”

“Wants me to update. Now its logged out. Or it wants me to log in to update.”

“What can you see?”

“Similar to before where I put my password in. With the two boxes. But I’m already logged in”

“Well, what it’s trying to do there is-”

“No- Chestle. What do I do?”

“…Top right. Is there a little X you can press to get out of there? It’s usually red”

Chestle tucks away his mood because he fears it might be sullied.

“Top right… top right. I can’t see the top right. My sticky pad is over the top of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“With my details. If I take it off it won’t stick back on again. Need it for when I log in. Seems like all I fucking do is log in.”

“Um. Maybe just kind of fondle behind the sticky pad with the cursor and click a bunch. See what happens.”

“It’s just gotten bigger. Why would it get bigger? It’s the whole screen, Chestle. Like, all of it. Computer at St. Junes: no issues. Oh… fucker”

This was now the second time he has heard Stewart swear.

“Stewart. Shush. Go up and as far as you can to the right”

“Right?”

“Yeah.”

The backdoor opens again and a chair is pulled out.

“And don’t tell me to shush young man- oh… top stuff. That’s fine then? You know this a stupid bloody thing.”

Bloody wasn’t a swear word. Only two swear words by Chestle’s count.

“Yeah if it’s gone you’re alright.”

“What was that all about?”

“Nonsense. Are we all good now?”

Chestle is staring down a cut portion of chicken kiev that is getting cold next to dollop of mayonnaise with a kiev brushstroke through it.

“Yes”

“Okay. Well, I’ll see you soon”

“And Chestle?”

“Stewart.” Chestle feels accomplished enough to sound reassuring.

“Tell me we’ve seen him.”

“Terry? Mm. Nothing. If you’re especially worried about him tonight, come over. Talk it out.”

“No. Not worried. Just… expect some chirping. I can hear it already.”

He knew he was too on the nose with his suggestion as it came out of his mouth.

“Course. See you soon, mate. I just meant talking logistics about finding him.”

“Goodnight Chestle.”

Chestle looks at his plate and wonders whether it is worth going over to Stewart’s unannounced. It has never been a good idea. Stewart is always a softer person when he’s seen him for two days in a row but he won’t push it because it doesn’t feel right and he’s averse to it going wrong. The evening sends a purple hue over his neighbours house and he is already sleepy. It takes him no more than ten minutes to fall asleep to a little historical number on TV called “Nazi MegaMachines” which he doesn’t remember anything of by the morning.

Stewart, meanwhile, had returned to being seated on the two-person swinging deck chair that he chained to the front of his house. He continued squinting to look down the road and setting himself on fire. The deck chair was slightly wet and swollen but only when he got uncomfortably cold did he decide to go in for a usual night of interrupted sleep.