I wash the dishes and hand them to Luke—even
though we have a drainer, he insists on drying each plate. “It’s an
excuse to stand close to you,” he says, his voice low so it won’t
carry out into the living room, where Kent’s watching TV. He has it
up so damn loud, I’d be surprised if he could hear anything
else. The more he drinks, I swear the louder it gets.
And Luke is practically standing on top of
me, he’s so close. When I scrub a plate, my elbow pokes into his
side, and every so often he’ll bump my hip with his to make me
smile. At one point, I’m scouring the pot and he’s leaning over the
sink, waiting for me to finish so he can towel it off, and his arm
snakes around my waist, his hand eases into my front pocket, his
fingers slip beneath the money I’ve shoved in there to s
