Pinch This, Dollop That

I'm tired. I'm dirty. And I've just lit one of Ellen's tall candles from the dining room table and set it on the edge of the sink for atmosphere--a painful reminder of her. Tub is about half-full, soap suds foaming up around the rim, mirror over the sink fogging up--

Then quickly back through the living room to the kitchen to pick up my drink, tuck smokes and lighter under my armpit, portable radio in the other hand, everything coming together nicely.

But crossing back through the living room I catch something out of the corner of my eye that I don't want to believe: something standing stock-still out in the yard. Most of him obscured by the loosely-tied back curtains, but by what very little I see of him--T-shirt, sunburned arm curved around a large bulky paper bag, and the big belly, or part of it--I instantly recognize who it is. No vehicle in the yard, though. How'd he get here and what he wants keep going through my mind as I begin undoing everything--bathwater off, candle out, radio back on kitchen counter. I pull my dirty britches back on and step out on the porch, bringing my drink and smokes with me.

The man hasn't moved, just a big fat arm up, beer to his lips.

Francis Hughes is about the last person on Earth I want to see standing there at this moment--if anyone at all--but I speak without showing too much displeasure.