domestic tender_square there is a man and a woman and a teenage boy. the man sits at a picnic table, glaring at the woman and the boy. the man looks as though he is melting, the way his left leg stretches out from the bench, the way he leans against the table, slouched, and drags on a cigarette. he barks like a chained doberman. "i tell you to open the window, 'how much?' you ask. it doesn't fucking matter, just open the fucking window!" the woman and the boy stand on a dirt patch facing one another. they have just finished tearing down a tent the three of them slept in the night prior. the woman and the boy have their arms linked, while a column of nylon separates them and they try to squeeze it small into a canvas bag. the same way they squeeze themselves into quietness and withdraw. the man makes no move to assist with the task. he is the supervisor here, because he isn't elsewhere. the voice of the woman is soft and hushed, like a warbler disappearing. "use your fucking head," the man shouts. "i'm tired of this shit." 230910 what's it to you? who go blather from