Gin-soaked (Closing)

Dirty laundry piled on the futon, pillows tumbled to the floor. The doors to the bulky blond wood armoire stand ajar, more clothing piled on the floor there, leaking from drawers. On the glass-topped café table a straight green glass vase full of wilting spider mums has been pushed to one side to make room for an open pizza box empty except for a couple of nibbled crusts and a litter of petals. The sink in the little hallway kitchen is lost under a pile of dirty plates, glasses, bowls, a saucepan. A key rattles in the lock. Jo limps in shrugging a shoulder out of her jacket, flicking on the light in the little hallway kitchen. She shimmies her other arm free and lets the jacket drop to the floor. Heads across the main room stumbling over the black spear-haft stretching away under the table, kicking pillows out of the way to stand by the futon, her left hand gingerly opening and closing.

Ysabel’s in the little hallway kitchen looking down at Jo’s army-surplus jacket on the floor by the overflowing garbage can. She starts to say, “Could you at least,” but Jo snaps “Not now, okay? Not fucking now.” She’s unbuckling her belt. “And I don’t want to hear how it wouldn’t be a problem if I hadn’t opened my eyes when I shouldn’t have.” She kicks enough clothing away to free a space on the futon by the wall.

“It was more your big mouth,” says Ysabel. Jo’s yanking off her jeans, wincing, shaking out her left hand. “I told you it would sting a bit,” says Ysabel.

“Whatever,” says Jo, squirming under the blankets. Ysabel sits in one of the spindly wrought-iron chairs by the glass-topped table. “We’re going to see whatsisname, Erne, tomorrow,” says Jo.

“All right,” says Ysabel. “Does that mean you’re going to start carrying the sword?”