I don’t tell him to leave. He doesn’t ask if he can stay.
I sit at the table and stare at the whiskey as it steadily disappears from the bottle. Just to prove to myself I’m not the only one drinking it, I keep pouring a little into Ricky’s glass, and once or twice he even sips at it. When it gets dark outside, he turns on the light above the table, which pushes the shadows back into the living room and the hallway beyond the kitchen. He asks if I’m hungry and I shrug. Right now I’m just wondering if I still have that second bottle hidden behind the flour, because I’m starting to shake again and I swear I feel the press of fingers against hidden flesh. The memory’s coming back, sharper than ever. I don’t want to stay alone tonight.
So Ricky heats up one of those frozen family-sized dinner
