Mywas another word they both liked.
As in “My husband, Eli.”
“My wife, Glory.”
She held out her hand, where Eli’s grandmother’s old ruby and diamond ring and her own slim vintage diamond wedding band caught and shot little sparks in the sun. They’d gone and done it one afternoon at the courthouse and decided they’d have a big party when she got back from Los Angeles, invite everyone they knew, hell, even Mrs.Adler. Eli didn’t think the diamonds were anywhere near as dazzling as the woman who wore them proudly, but she loved sparkle, and he caught her admiring them a lot in a lot of different lights.
“I’ll miss you a lot,” he said. Gruffly.
“We can talk dirty to each other on Skype. I want to hear all the non-dirty stuff, too.”
“I’ll save it all up for you.”
He kissed her. Hard, and then soft. She hung on to him extra tightly a moment. Because she needed it, and she knew he did, too. Because she knew that his life could be pornographic garden gnomes one minute and a gun wielding meth addict the next. Because they would never get enough of holding each other, no matter what.
He kissed her fiercely one more time and then whispered, “Go get ’em, tiger.”
She finally let go. And walked backward, blowing him a kiss.
He caught a glint of something else sparkling in the corner of her eye. She brushed at it.
She looped her hand around her new bright red carry-on case, in which she’d packed, among things like her favorite blue bra and faded jeans, a box of the cassettes she’d recorded over the years and her stuffed tiger, so she could finally say, “See? Told you we’d see the world.”
And when she finally turned around and walked away, she put a little more swing into it.
Just for him.
Epilogue
One year later...
Eli leaned back against the bar at the Misty Cat Cavern in the “V.I.P. section,” his arms wrapped around his wife, who was snuggled up against him, head tucked under his chin. It was both an embrace, and kind of a way to hold each other up. They were both a little dizzied by what they’d learned before they set out for Glory’s show at the Misty Cat this evening. They both felt as if they’d belted down a bottle of champagne each. Champagne made solely of bubbles, maybe.
Glory finally looked up when the house lights dipped portentously. It was her cue to get a move on.
And then she froze. “Omigosh! Eli don’t move. You have a spider on your neck.”
“Holy—! Get it...”
Glory reached up and plucked it off.
Ah, country girls. Not afraid of a damn thing.
They peered down at it in her palm. “Oh!” She was bemused. “It’s not a spider. It’s one of my fake eyelashes.”
Eli laughed.
A pit crew of uniquely skilled women had just spent a couple hours on her makeup to make it look like she wasn’t wearing any makeup. And then they’d worked on her hair for about an hour to make it look as though she had just rolled out of bed. As part of this routine, a fluffy row of fake eyelashes was glued to each of her eyelids.
Those women were watching her nervously now, suspecting their good work was being undone.
They’d let Glory wear her own jeans and her own white lacy shirt on stage, at least.
She wouldn’t be fitting into either of those for much longer.
She and Eli kept having thoughts like that. They now saw all the little details of their world, the mundane and the profound, through the lens of their news. Each new realization was like a fresh rush of intoxication.
“I better go let them fix me.” Glory gestured with the eyelash. “I’m supposed to be on in ten.”
