You're putting that kohl pencil around your eyes again. The mirror balanced on your knees, speckled with age, catches the dim light from the heater Mom left out for you.
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Maggie ran her hands over her newly flattened stomach and smiled wistfully. She inhaled another breath of the whipped-up wind and listened once more for the crash of waves on the beach before closing the kitchen window.
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“When my sister has a bad day,” she says, “she goes into Brown Thomas to stroke the shoes.” “To what the shoes?” he asks, not sure he’s heard right. “When she has a bad day, she goes into Brown Thomas to stroke the shoes,” she repeats.
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The dress I loved was a hand-me-down from someone I can’t remember. It had ribbon ties at the shoulders, and blocks of pink, yellow and blue. My hair peeked below my earlobes like the splayed out ends of a broom.
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Steven’s eyes scanned the room as I described the past year – the new doctor, the new medications, a book I almost read. We were in a North Beach bar that hadn’t changed since its beatnik heyday, except for the prices and clientele.
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Danny slid onto his usual stool at the end of the bar, the one with duct tape holding the vinyl together like a field dressing. Joe was already pouring before Danny’s ass hit the seat. “Whiskey neat,” Joe said, setting it down. “Like you’d order anything else.”
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I keep dreaming about the other girl. She is looking down into the water, and I’m looking up at her through the silvered surface. She is wearing a white slip that reflects the moon. She reaches for me and I reach for her.
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Someone’s banging on the front door, but that’s not what’s woken me. There’s a high-pitched whining that surely only dogs should be able to hear. Ben, lying next to me, doesn’t stir, which isn’t surprising. He’s taken to wearing earplugs at night, and in the day too, if he thinks he can get away with it. He says it makes things easier to bear.