Page 73 of His Last Nerve

I bared my darkest parts of my soul to this woman and yet…she thought my eyes were beautiful.

Is that was she meant by smoke?

My eyes were gray, like Pop’s and Mason’s. It was a Langston family trait; one I passed down to my boy. Still, Momma used to tell me mine were different from Pop’s or Mason’s.

My sweet boy.

My feet moved from the kitchen, and I found myself in the living room, staring at her rocking chair.

I wasn’t her sweet boy anymore.

Yet, you chased after Valerie today and held her in your arms.

“I’m the only one here, Momma,” I whispered, pulling my hat off. I was the only one left. When I was a kid, she used to dance in that kitchen, singing Johnny Cash while she spun Mason around in her arms. I would sit at the counter and watch her.

“One day, my boys will be dancing in this kitchen with their own women,” she said, looking at me. Mason giggled and chewed on his fist.

“Girls are gross, Momma,” I said.

She looked at me and smiled. “This house will be full for generations.”

I didn’t know what she was talking about. I just wanted her to keep singing. “Can you sing again, Momma?”

This house hadn’t been full in ten years, because of me.

I was the one who broke this fucking family.

“Denver?”

I whipped around to find Valerie by the stairs, still in the blue dress, her hair down now, falling in messy waves. Her greens eyes were on me before they drifted to the chair behind me.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

She was still wearing the blue dress.

Fuck, that dress.

It was cotton, meant to be a casual dress, no doubt. But fuck, it could have been a wedding dress and I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.

“You hungry?” I said, as I brushed past her.

Her cherry smell followed me into the kitchen as she moved with me. I turned to the fridge and stole a glance at her feet. She was barefoot.

“Your feet aright?” I asked, pulling out ingredients for dinner.

“Oh, yes. That cream you gave me really helped.”

That cream was a miracle worker. “Good,” I grunted, avoiding looking at her again. I turned to the stove and pulled out some pans, and I could feel her.

Fuck, I could feel her.

“Den—”

“You eat red meat?” I asked, unwrapping a steak.

“Yes,” she answered. “But you don’t have to—”

“Gonna make steak sandwiches. You good with that?”

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