...which tastes the way the pool looks...

Painting by Eric Zener

When I left, Heather was lying on her stomach and whinging at me with her neck craned. Now she is supine, with the pool chair back slightly raised, one of her legs extended, one knee bent and angling upward, chin up. Relieved and cautiously hopeful I stand and unload the bags in the kitchen and from here I can see the pool and most of the yard and patio. The music is playing loudly enough that I can crinkle and clink without her hearing me.  I make two drinks, give my linen pants a tug so that they brush against the tops of my feet and don’t drag and pad my way in bare feet out to the patio.

She hears me now and leans her head over to face me. I cannot tell what her eyes are doing behind her sunglasses.

“Thanks,” she says, seeing the two drinks in my hand. Her voice is a little dreamy, either from the heat or because she got high while I was gone.

Which is it?  Why should I care?

“You’re welcome,” I say and sip from the cold gin martini in my hand, which tastes the way the pool looks in this heat. The lemon twist bobs in the drink and curls like a question mark.

--- Excerpt from my novel in progress, tentatively titled either What's Unessential or No Church in the Wild