We’re going to be late, he said. They were always late. Late to PTA meetings. Tardy to dinner dates with friends. At church, they would sneak into the back and sit in the last pew, trying not to get caught by Christ who hung above their heads.

Yes. We are already late, he told his wife. Late, late, late. What is it with you? He asked, yelling upstairs.

I tore my hose, she responded. It’ll only take a minute.

Fine. He went into the kitchen and picked up the morning paper. Read the headline. Scanned over the first paragraph. It was a story of a fire that took place on the Southside. There were no survivors.

They’re always burning something, he mumbled. Every day, a fire.

What’s that dear? She said, twirling around in her cocktail dress.

Over on 95th. Cottage Grove. Always a fire. Douglas Park. Always burning something. A house. A car. A liquor store. Why do they do this?

How do I look? The wife asked.

He put the paper down on the kitchen counter. Great honey. You look great.

Who’s always burning something?

The Irish.

Irish?

No. Of course not, he said. Always a fire. They’re big on homicides too. All this crime. I’ll guarantee that fire was arson. Hoodlums burning down a building. Or, a crooked landlord. Always about money. Money, money, money. Why can’t they just go about it like we do? Earn it.

Are you ready? She asked.

Yeah. I’m ready.

They kissed in the hallway. He opened the door for her and held her hand.

You know. This neighborhood used to be safe, he said as they drove through Lincoln Park.

Take a right here, dear.

I know how to get to Rob and Karen’s. Just….

OK. OK. You’re preoccupied.

Yes. I’m watching my city go to hell, he turned right.

She sat in silence as they drove down North Clark Street.

I just wish one of them would break into our house. Shoot him right there on the spot I would. No regrets.

That’s nice, dear, the wife said as she looked out the window.

Yeah. One of these days. One of these days.