25
In July, Derrick stood beside Willow, using the neck of a beer bottle to point at the picture on her easel. “What kind of weird s**t is that?”
Engrossed in her work and with the July heat so thick she had to lean into it the way she leaned into strong winds, she hadn’t heard him coming up the apartment stairs or opening the door. She’d lost track even of the hours she sat tipped forward, her fingers clutching a brush. Now, torn from that quiet, interior space, she felt the ache in the small of her back. Already two days past her due date, she thought herself a porpoise. She leaned back and kneaded her pain. The clock over the stove read almost 6:30. “You worked late,” she said.
Derrick took another drink, longer this time. He shifted his weight. “Who’s that? You?”
Standing, hoisting
