Morgan and Tristan

The sunlight seeping into the window and onto the floor of my basement apartment was beginning to fade. Since Morgan left, I didn't have much furniture. She had knocked on my door today for the first time in four years. I let her in.

Tristan was with her. It was the first time I had ever seen the little towhead, and my throat closed up. He never looked at me, but immediately ran over to Tully and stomped on her tail. She let out a screech and he laughed as she scurried to hide under the bed with the dust mice.

I could tell that Morgan had sewn Tristan's overalls herself. The zipper was all askew and one pantleg was shorter than the other. I didn't say anything but instead tried talking with her.

"How have you been?" I asked.

"Oh, you know," she said.

"Yeah," I said. I wanted to shake the little brat who was stalking my cat, while at the same time I wanted to take him outside and show him how to climb the huge willow tree in the yard. I wanted to ask him if he knew who I was.

I reached out my hand to touch Morgan's, but she pulled away without thinking, without making a production out of it. She stood and walked the four steps to the sink from where we sat on the bed. She looked out the windows, removed a tumbler from the cupboard and poured a surprisingly large amount of bourbon from a bottle she produced out of her purse.

"Morgan?" I started. Tristan had chased Tully out from under the bed and was now shrieking with delight as he clipped closepins to her. She was managing to shake most of them loose and wriggle away from Tristan's grasp. I ignored my boy tormenting my cat for the moment.

Article Author: Marc

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