When I got home from work last night, Mason was there. He had a bruise under his eye, and when he finally rose from his favorite chair, he winced from the pain of bringing himself up to stand. He limps, and he’s favoring his right arm, trying not to use it if he can awkwardly do what needs doing with his left.
Mason says all this muscle soreness and bruising was caused by nothing exciting. Says he took a stupid fall on the slippery wood floors of the old house. But every female in our household knows he’s lying. He fibs so poorly, you have to wonder why he bothered.
Last night after dinner, he and Levi spent a long time in Levi’s den. They lit a fire in there, drank bourbon, and talked by themselves away from us women, as if it were the nineteen thirties or something. I think I may have even smelled cigar smoke.
This never, ever happens.
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.