I was lazing about this afternoon, talking with one of the roommates, who was splayed out on the couch, saying he's "recovering."
"Yeah, I hear ya," I empathised.
We began (he began) flipping through the channels as I sat tip-tapping away, being at once entertained by alligators on Discovery (especially given the upcoming adventure), turned off by "Harry Potter," then once again super entertained by detective shows.
I thought we were on the same page, due to our simultaneous scoffs at what was on-screen, and our shakes of heads when something bizarre was shown; a commercial break broke the narrative of our detective lore and I looked over at him, the roommate, and said "Good god(s)."
"I know, there's no evidence," he responded, looking at me with a sincere nod of understanding, underneath the thin sheet covering him and his ailing body.
"What?" I shot back, with a dagger of a stare.
"Come on, no evidence."
I explained how the physical evidence showed, proved, even, that there was no waaaaaay that the homicide (suicide, yeah, right) wasn't full-proof. I even propped myself up near the ledge of our window to show that due to the laws of physics, just, no way.
As the detective show later recounted the case, he, roommate, said, "Oooooohhh, yeah, that point ... yeah, that one's where they got him."
"You didn't pick up on that the first time around?!?!?!? God, how do I even live with you?" I responded, rhetorically.
Ph.D. candidate at Columbia, and no picking out an obviously deliberate murder plot -- storytelling must be some kind of craft, I try to tell myself.
It made me think of "Misery," mostly because Kathy Bates' cabin-fever craziness leads her to become obsessed with a literary idol and kidnap him, only to later try to come up with a cover-up to fool her detective followers.
Oh-ho, how I can't wait till I can let my mind wander Down Home.