Fiction
by Andrew Riconda
by Andrew Riconda“I’m going to hit the showers,” she said, and then, walking away, she said, “Make yourself at home,” and Sal Salvo looked down at the coffee table, picked up an antique cigarette lighter, and put it in his pocket.
He heard the shower start, the bathroom door left open enough for a dog to get through, any of your mid-size models. From the people he didn’t know at all through the people that knew him forever, none of them ever left him alone in a room, ever took an eye off him. But he was pretty sure she—Berry was her name—wanted his eyes on her, raking them over her silhouette on the plastic shower curtain liner, keeping him enticed until she and her boyfriend, Eugene, made whatever pitch they were going to make. He hoped it was soon, the pitch.
