It was warm and cozy inside. The fireplace was lit, and the place was redolent with the remnants of what must have been spaghetti and meatballs. I remembered that Joey was a great cook, something he’d done often when we were alone together here in the cabin whenever we got the chance to get away. I would sit in his lap, and he would feed me between kisses. I had almost forgotten that.
Rays from the setting sun streamed into the windows, highlighting Joey where he sat on a cushy armchair near the fire. His favorite acoustic guitar was in his lap, and a beer was on a rug near his broad, bare feet.
I walked passed him to the back of the house to use the bathroom because, yes, my bladder was full to bursting. When I got back, I stood awkwardly between the kitchen and where Joey sat strumming
