Page 8 of His Big Bad Stick

I sit outside our apartment door and do what I do best.

I daydream.

I daydream of a gallery with my name on it. Of a large space for me to paint. I’m forever in overalls that are paint stained, only cleaning up nice when there’s a showing. Even then, I’m wearing jeans and a white shirt that’s half tucked in. I sip expensive wine, good champagne, pick at appetizers that the catering staff I’ve hired walks around with.

People come from all over the state, the country, even the world to see me.

A man with a French accent flirts with me and begs for me to come with him to Paris to paint.

Another man from London who has a devilishly sexy squared-off chin tells me how he’s from royalty and will buy a castle if I just run away with him forever.

Across the hallway from me, the door opens and Mrs. Duggen shuffles out.

“Gabrielle,” she says.

She adds the G to my name and I tried to correct her once and you would have sworn I’d asked her to give me the calculations needed for a rocket to go to the moon.

So to her, I’m Gabrielle.

Just leave it at that.

I wave.

“Locked out?”

“Nope.”

“Something is wrong.”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” I say with a big smile.

Mrs. Duggen holds up a finger and goes back into her apartment.

When she returns, she has a glass of milk and a small plate with two cookies on it.

She tells everyone she makes the cookies but they’re store bought.

“This will fix all your troubles,” she says.

I can’t be mean to a sweet lady like her.

I thank her.

The milk is cold. The cookies are a little hard, but who am I to complain?

Mom’s been gone for the entire weekend.

I’d like to assume she’s working but she’s not. She’s with some new guy.

The only good of that is she’ll come home with something.

Money, gifts, I don’t know.

I eat the cookies, I drink the milk, and I return the glass and plate in front of Mrs. Duggen’s door.

I’m like a low class Santa.

That makes me laugh.

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