Page 176 of Property of Whiskey

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Expected something else.”

“Like?”

“More pink.”

I stare at him. “Why?”

“You wrestle in sparkly tanks.”

“My ring gear is not my decorating philosophy.”

“Could be.”

“I hate pink.”

“You wore pink boots.”

“They were magenta.”

Whiskey smiles. “You’re serious.”

“Very.”

The house is mostly wood and old things I’ve collected because I like objects that have already survived somebody else. The dining table was an estate-sale wreck before I refinished it. My couch is brown leather I bought used because I refused to pay furniture-store prices for something people put their asses on. Old wrestling posters hang beside my academy graduation photograph, books crowd mismatched shelves, and three plants droop in the front windows because I forget they need water until they start looking like death.

Whiskey stops at the dining table. He studies the top without touching it.

“You did that?”

“Did what?”

“Refinished it.”

I pause. “How do you know?”

“Grain.”

I stare at him.

He shrugs. “Mama likes antiques.”

“I found it at an estate sale.”

“Nice.”

Something warm slips unexpectedly beneath my ribs.

I don’t like it.

“Quit approving of my furniture.”

“Can’t help having taste.”

“You own a cardboard castle.”