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We had always discussed each other’s plans before. Then there was the time I got home from class just as she was leaving the house. She said that she came over thinking that I was home and apologized for forgetting about me being in class. Thing was, she knew damn well that Fiction class was my favorite class (even though I was always late) and that I never missed if I could help it. Blinded by love and the diamond in my dresser drawer, I didn’t think twice about the exchange. It wasn’t many days after that episode that I returned from another Fiction class to find a rare message on my answering machine. I remembered a line from a classmate’s story that day and laughed. ‘Well, I’ll be dipped,’ I thought. Hell, Skipper’s probably dead now. Anyhow, the message was Ashley’s. The cliché was ‘It’s over,’ and then it was almost over for me. I was heartbroken. I was enraged. Eighteen-fucking-hundred dollars on a goddamn shiny rock and three years of your sow-your-wild-oats time flushed. "Start canning, drying. Fill the pantry and cellar, so I know what we have and what I can make." Day after tomorrow," he said. "Tomorrow we rest, then it's back to work." Can you make pickles, Sis?" Zak looked at her with wide, hopeful eyes. Her heart almost burst."I think I can do that. Just for you."Tom lay on the couch, watching the women clean up after dinner.There was something relaxingly sexist about the act. It reminded him of home. Of childhood, before he entered real life. Before life began rejecting him. Women in the kitchen, talking. Men in the den, doing the same. A game on the TV. Tom sitting on the floor, eyes going between the glowing screen and the faces that dominated his life.They could recreate that.Not TV, no. While putting some sort of hydro or wind power here was possible, that wasn't on the agenda. He could be a Grandpa, though. Tom would live long. He knew that, somehow. The Lady would see to it. He would see his children grow, mate, give them their own.
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