“Here it is,” she said, brandishing a bottle. “That sounds fine,” Daniel said absently, trying to imagine his mother in this place, having coffee in the morning, reading the newspaper and planning her day. “How did you know my mother again?” he asked, looking at Jennifer more carefully now as she opened up the liquor cabinet in the corner. She reached for two glasses on the shelf above and Daniel watched the tight, black skirt ride up her leg as she stretched on her toes to reach the stemware, the muscles of her calf flexing beneath her sheer, black nylons. Holy Christ, she’s got a nice ass … and legs, too … She poured the wine. “I sold her this place,” Jennifer said, handing one to Daniel. They raised their glasses in silence and drank without looking at each other. “Well,” Jennifer said, brightening. “Let me give you the rest of the five-cent tour.” She led Daniel down the hall, past a kitchen outfitted with granite countertops and high-end appliances. “Your mother didn’t cook. Waiting for him, now. Been watching for three nights. Guy’s first time, it seems. Gets up frequently at night. Drinks water. Won’t open fridge. Won’t look at garbage can. Shame. Nerves keep him up. Got a plan. Scare him. Waiting for him to get up, again. Have page from old anatomy book. Red marker dissecting colorfully diagrammed body. I’ll tape it to bedroom window while he’s gone. He’ll come back. Scream, likely. He feels like a screamer. He’ll run and check on the garbage can he never looks at. In kitchen. Make sure evidence hasn’t left his place. Check fridge, likely, too. Tap from kitchen window. Red eyes staring at him on other side of glass. Not moving. Not blinking. Big, yellowed teeth smiling under them. Scream. Panic. Probably won’t move. Think ‘Just imagining things’. Won’t budge. Keep trying to wake up. Crash through window. Talk. Dies. Then, back to Artie’s. Want to tell Artie it’s because I’m trying to make good on a bad world. Want to give him hope. Want to let him.
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