Tuesday, December 20, 2011
The night she brought the tequila, as they lay lit by moonlight on the damp sheets, she told him she'd come from Casa Grande, leaving behind a husband in two-story stucco with a pool she always dreamt was empty, except where the water had gathered stagnant and stuck in a murky puddle at the drain. She'd brought her cat with her but had gone to work one night, her first at the casino, and forgotten to make sure he was in, then arrived home six hours later in time to find it being chased down and dragged off by a coyote. She cried in his arms and fell asleep though he did not, waking her at sunrise when he left the bed, hushing her with a finger to his lips, closing the door behind him on the way to the kitchen. The smell of strong coffee reminded her of camping with her grandparents. She smiled and rolled to the window to face the tapping rain when the first two eggs hit the skillet sizzling.