Rick’s mother called Lisa in the winter and asked if her son was really not coming for Christmas morning. Lisa said he was coming at four with a book. The mother said that was thin. Lisa said thin was what he had earned. The mother was quiet and then said she was sorry about the phone. Lisa said thank you. The thank-you to a mother-in-law was cheaper than a thank-you to Rick. She spent it. The book arrived at four. The hour ended. The green wall did not have to host him. Hosting was over. Visits had edges. Edges were Joan’s gift and Lisa’s enforcement. Cole stood on the porch until the truck turned and then came in and asked for cocoa. Cocoa was a yes. She made it.
By the third October the wings were just wings. Lisa bought them because Cole asked and because refusing forever would have made the sauce a shrine. She was done with shrines. The box in the closet was a file, not a shrine. The game was on at Derek’s. Cole texted a score and a complaint about a referee. Lisa texted a period and then, unusually, a word: harsh. He sent back a laugh. The laugh was small on a screen and large in the kitchen. She put the phone face-down on purpose, a different face-down, not a wing plate, a rest. The rest held. When he came home hoarse she did not say anything about the old Sunday. He did not either. They ate. The replica went in the wash. The machine ran. Monday was coming. Monday was enough. The next snap could belong to a field she was not watching, and the house could belong to the people who had stayed in the room.
The ice in the kitchen that Sunday had melted in the glass Rick never came back for. Lisa poured it out after Cole was in bed. The pour was nothing. It felt like a snap of its own, small, finished. She rinsed the glass. She did not put it face-down. Face-down was drama. She put it in the rack. The rack was a policy. Policy was how she got through Tuesday.