“Coffee,” he says.
“No whiskey?”
“Not today.”
I pour him a mug and set it down.“You look tired.”
“You look like you ain’t sleepin’ either.”
“Must be contagious.”
He smiles, just a flicker, but it hits me like heat from a flame.We talk about nothing, weather, engines, the ongoing Christmas parade that got canceled for once because of a strike.I joke about the irony of a town that can afford fake but real snow but not to pay Santa.He laughs for real this time.
When he leaves, he drops a fifty beside his half-drained mug.“For the coffee.”
“That’s a big tip,” I say.
“Guess I liked the service.”
“I don’t think I can accept this.”I huff, pushing it back at him.
“Why not?”
“You know why not.What would it make me?”
Taking the bill back, he says, “You’re not that, Carol.”
He walks out before I can think of something clever to say back.But I know before the door shut behind him, he’ll call later.
And he does.
This time, we fight about the money, and how it made me feel.Like a whore.But we don’t mention the why.
The pattern forms before I can stop it.
Daylight denial.Midnight confessions.
We talk about small things.
“What song’s stuck in your head?”he asks.
“‘Blue Christmas,’” I answer.
“Figures.”
“What about you?”
“‘Highway to Hell.’”
“You’re terrible.”
“You like terrible,” he says, and I don’t argue.
Other nights, he goes quieter.
He calls from his Harley, wind howling through the line.“You ever just ride until you forget where you were headed?”
“Can’t say I have,” I say into my cell, I’m holding on my shoulder.I’m doing the dinner dishes while Blake’s asleep in my bed.“I don’t even drive.”
