Some women rearrange the room without trying, Seanie. Some women leave the room without leaving anything. Some women do both.
Frank's voice. From a kitchen he has not stood in since 2001.
You don't walk away from the ones who do both.
I redress the wound. I take a shower I should not be taking.
Non era mio padre.
The words she said in her sleep. In a language I have never learned to translate.
He was not my father.
And the other one. The phrase the dying operative passed me like a piece of mail.
The lost heir lives.
He said it like he was reporting in. Not confessing. Like the heir was data. Like he had been told to confirm. And had now confirmed.
I make coffee. I sit on the couch.
Her perfume is still on my ruined shirt.
Vanilla. Warm skin. Bad decisions.
I should wash it.
Instead, I lift it to my face like a man who has clearly lost all perspective.
Jesus Christ.
The knock comesat 8:30 a.m.
Three short. A pause. One more.
Reyes.
He is in the same clothes he was wearing last shift. Coffee in one hand. His other hand is doing the thing it does when he is angry, but professional about it. The index finger and thumb are working slowly against each other.
He looks at me, the dark stain on my t-shirt, then my face.
Ten seconds.
"Donovan."
"Reyes."
"I had your eulogy half-written."
"Anything good in it?"
"I was going to lie."
"Appreciated."
"You're going to tell me you took an Uber?"
"Walked in."
