Whoever she is, she freezes when she sees me.
Dark hair streaked silver,
stubborn and waving wild.
Two eyes the color of bitter amaro,
cut from kitchen knives.
Fuzzy socks. Giants tee.
Wine glass sloshing cherry-red and strong.
Her smile dies fast.
Her gaze is defensive.
Her expression is armor.
“…You lost?”
I tighten my grip on the bag.
Yeah, I fuckin’ lost,I wanna tell her.
“I’m here for Andrew.”
She takes a long sip,
eyes studying me over the rim.
“Andrew who?”
We’re at a deadlock.
Neither of us move.
I remember, then, that Andrew doesn’t bring girls home. She might be thinking I’m some obsessed person, which wouldn’t be entirely false.
“You’re… Paola, right?”
Her eyes narrow.
“Andrew, your son,” I say, squinting, remembering, “The one you force to watch the Hallmark marathon every Christmas. The‘Tequila and a shit decision’Maria carried for ten months, and the one you blame for your gray hair? Yeah. That Andrew.”
She gives me a full scan, top to bottom,
brows rising. “Well. Shit.”
Her gaze drops to the bag in my hand.
“Gotta name, sweetheart?”
“Yeah. Allison.”
I don’t smile.
I don’t do fake polite shit just so she’ll like me.
