Stinger

by Robert McCammon

“You already see everything better than me.” He bent over and kissed her forehead. Again he caught that odor of decaying violets. Her fingers found one of the leather bracelets. “These things again? Why do you wear these things?” “No reason. It’s just the style.” He pulled his hand away. “The style. Sí.” Paloma smiled faintly. “And who sets that style, Ricardo? Probably somebody you don’t know and wouldn’t like anyway.” She tapped her skull. “You use this. You live your own style, not somebody else’s.” “It’s hard to do.” “I know. But that’s how you become your own man, instead of an echo.” Paloma turned her head toward the window. The harsh edges of light that crept around the shade made her head ache. “Your mother … now she’s the stylish one,” Paloma said softly. Rick was caught off guard. It had been a long time since Paloma had mentioned his mother. He waited, but she said nothing else. “It’s almost eight. I’d better go.” “Yes. You’d better go on. You don’t want to be late, Mr. Senior.” “I’ll be home at six,” he told her, and then he went to the door; but before he left the room he glanced quickly back at the frail form on the bed and he said, as he did every morning before he went to school, “I love you.” And she answered, as she always did, “Double love back to you.”