Page 112 of Property of Whiskey

“Talking to myself.”

“That seems healthy.”

“Been a rough day.”

“For you?”

I look at her.

She gives me the sweetest fake smile I’ve ever seen.

“Right.”

I unlock the front door, step inside first out of habit, scan the room, then move aside so Twila can enter.

She makes it three feet before stopping.

I know what she sees.

Shoes are lined beneath the bench by the wall, one pair mine and three pairs Wren’s because apparently a seven-year-old needs pink footwear stationed like emergency equipment. Her purple backpack hangs from a hook beside mine, one strap twisted around itself. A school calendar is held to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a cheeseburger, and beside it is a drawing of me on a motorcycle with Wren standing next to me and Glamaw rendered twice our size for reasons I’ve never understood.

Twila walks toward the refrigerator.

“That’s you?”

“The beard gave it away?”

“You look like Bigfoot.”

“Artist took liberties.”

“She made herself taller than the bike.”

“Confidence.”

Twila smiles, then notices Wren’s school picture clipped beneath the lunch calendar.

My girl is grinning with one front tooth missing and her hair crooked because she refused to let me redo the ponytail that morning.

Twila’s face softens.

“She’s cute.”

“Yeah.”

“Looks like you.”

“Poor kid.”

“You’re fishing.”

“For what?”

“A compliment.”

“Ain’t that desperate.”

She turns and takes in the rest of the house.