It’s snowing. It’s the end of April. It’s not supposed to do that around here. My son’s sixth birthday party is today. First I was invited. Then I wasn’t invited. I wasn’t really surprised. She’s done this before. Twice I think. My other son. She never does it with him. The kitchen’s a bit smoky from the oil in the caste iron skillet. I’m making enchiladas for breakfast. There’s half a bottle of tequila left from last night. Willie Nelson’s on the radio singing “Always On My Mind.” One of his later rambling versions. My girlfriend’s reading about renal failure and liver dysfunction. Smoking a cigarette with her hair piled up on her head in an alluring bundle. I love her fingernails. The way they flit about and shine when she does the things she does. Her father’s dying. He drinks too much. He did some things. Didn’t do others. He’s a Vietnam Vet. He’s a Woodworker. That stool I use when I put on my shoes. He made that. Looks a hundred years old. In a good way. Her son’s with him right now, so we have the house to ourselves. She’s worried he didn’t disengage the airbag in his car. If it goes off with a small child in the seat it can pop its head right off its spinal column like the cap of a mushroom. I’ve eaten too much of the cheese to put it in the enchiladas, so I eat the rest and think about using avocado instead. Happy Birthday, my son. Maybe when we’re older we’ll be friends. We walk to the store to get wine and more cigarettes. It’s Sunday. The snow has receded to small clumps around the trees. No one is out. At the market it’s the old German lady from Australia. She seems to have new teeth. She always talks to you like she’s known you for years. Though you can’t make sense of much of what she’s saying.

 

 

Upstreet 5