MOUNT THE SKY TO
When she told him to hurry, that they would be late already, he thought of all that foundation the ladies wore, thought of how it would get onto his jacket, onto his collar as they came in for those light, expensive-smelling kisses, and he thought of that pile of coats that always made him claustrophobic. He fingered his tie, listened to her heels on the floor upstairs, and took his drink onto the back porch. It was almost dark, and deep purples slipped over the sky, and he could hear them again, next door, yelling. He liked the sound of the girl’s voice when she yelled.
He watched her come out of her house, quiet now, and stand in the driveway. She was very thin, he thought, very small, too small for such a voice. She looked around and kicked out at a tricycle and he took a step backward, into the porch, into the dark.
He heard Lori come up behind him.
“She’s younger than your scotch, Allan.”
He nodded and finished his drink.
“You ready to go?” she asked.
“Gin.”
“What?”
“I was drinking gin.”
“Good for you. Let’s go. Any later and they’ll think I had to drag you.”
“You do.”
“Hurry, hurry.”
“You look great.”
“As good as your young friend?”
“Better.”
When they left, the girl was sitting at the curb, smoking a cigarette. She looked cold, Allan thought, cold but happy with it, and when she took a deep drag, watching the sky, he tried to remember that Greek god with little wings at his feet.
Allan watched the girl rake leaves. It was early and the sky was dim, gentle, an easy November blue that seemed to say it would always be so quiet and he smiled, still waking, still dreaming, and when she looked up at him he didn’t register. He came back to himself and saw she was frowning at him and he felt old. He blinked out a smile and went into the kitchen to start the coffee. From the counter he could still see her, through the window, raking, looking happy with the work and with herself.
Lori came down the stairs, already talking. He didn’t know if it was to him.
“I’m going to walk to work,” he said.
“Walk? But it’s cold.”
“They say it will snow this week.”
“I hope so. When we were young there was always snow by November.”
“You must have had a different childhood.”
“Coffee?” he asked. He kissed her, gave her a mug. She still smelled of whiskey sours and someone else’s cigar.
“I need a hot bath,” she said. “Scalding.”
He looked out the window, looked next door. She was still there. “Think she’ll do our lawn?”
“Who?”
“The girl.”
“Chloe. Her name is Chloe. And I’m not game to ask her. Yesterday
