Page 109 of Small Town Hunter

“To your left,” he says. I turn to my left to a living room with the softest looking couches, a small TV, and a playpen with some soft toys scattered inside it.Ruby.

I step closer to inspect the photographs running up and down the walls. Photographs of Crash.

His mother was a tiny woman with dark hair and a somber face. I don’t see any pictures of his dad. Every picture he has with his mother he’s holding her like a protective son. His first communion picture stands out. It’s the only picture she looks happy in. He told me she died of cancer before he went on tour.

Young Crash had messy hair and a mischievous smile until his first official army photo. In uniform the smile is gone, the hair shaved. His eyes are piercing. The hair comes back in a later photograph but the smile doesn’t.

“Is that Ruby?” I ask, pointing to a newer photo on the TV stand. It’s the cutest little baby with a pink bow in her curly hair.

“Yeah,” He says proudly. “She said her first word the other day. ‘Bye’.”

“Wow. She’s so cute.”

“I know, right? I can’t wait for you to meet her.”

I go over to the couch and on impulse I throw myself into it spread-eagle.

Whoosh!

Oh it’s sooo soft….

I hear Crash knocking around in the kitchen.

“What you got cooking?” I call.

“Chicken parm, rolls, a salad…”

“Okay,chef.”

“Hardly.”

That sounds like typical Crash modesty. Of course he’s probably an amazing cook. And his Mama was Italian?

“Fugheddaboutit,” I say out loud. It’s this new TV show I’m watching on my own since I think it’s too innapropriate even for Mamie’s crazy self.

“What?” Crash calls.

“Er— nothing.”

The oven door opens and closes. I shut my eyes and sink into the soft couch, a sudden wave of sleepiness washing over me.

“You cold?” Crash asks. “I can build a fire.”

“No, I’m just fine.”

After a minute Crash leaves the kitchen and walks over to me, flicking his hat onto the opposite love seat and settling in right next to me. There’s more light in this room than the kitchen, and it rings the back of his head into a reddish halo. He tickles my ribs and I slap his hand away, giggling.

We stare at each other. He pushes hair off my forehead.

Ba-dump.

“I missed you,” he says.

“I missed you too,” I breathe.

Our fingers tangle together. He strokes the back of my hand with his thumb.

“Hungry?”

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