I stumble barefoot over the gravel but Kent
doesn’t look up as I approach. I don’t expect him to. Coming up
behind him, I hold the mug out like I always do. “Your coffee,” I
tell him. I have to bite back all the other words I’m aching to
say.
He takes the offered drink without looking my
way—he doesn’t see me, I don’t exist for him. It’s just the plants
and the hose and the road ahead, the steaming java that warms his
face as he gulps it down. I wait until he lowers the mug, then
clear my throat. We have to talk…I know what I have to say,
I know the words, but they won’t come free. “Kent?” I ask. I hate
the trepidatious quiver in my voice.
He doesn’t answer, no surprise there. Just a
tilt of his head to indicate he’s heard me at all. Water keeps
streaming from the hose in a s
