The Meaning of Life

by Bill Yarrow

“One must not confuse the meaning
of life with the joy of living,” she said.
Have I been confusing the two? Is that
why I am so unhappy, I wondered. We
were sitting in a café in Tulsa and our
waitress was dressed in burlap. My
heuvos rancheros were getting cold.
I stared at my plate though I had lost
my appetite long ago. She kept talking
to me, something about a fireplace and
Thomas Merton and my own good. Her
voice reminded me of my childhood; it
had the sound of breaking. I like Tulsa.
It is ghostly enough to soothe loneliness.
“Are you listening to me?” she asked softly.
No, not really. “Well, thanks for being so
honest,” she smiled. It was a devastatingly
sweet smile, a smile to die for, a smile to
make the devil weep. I concluded that

the meaning of life is testosterone.