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Show Motherlunge a novel 162 "Strategies, but no vision," I said sagely. "That's hard." He looked at me then with a kind of fullness, and I imagined what it would be like to kiss him. And then suddenly that's what I was doing, half standing and leaning over the table, buttressing myself with my knuckles. Our lips pressed against our teeth and softened only a little, at the end. I sat back down heavily on my side of the booth. The music jigged and reeled-magically delicious!-overhead. And thank god my brother-in-law didn't say anything or look particularly moved as he sat across from me. I'd known him for eight years, and we'd never really understood each other, though holidays and special events with alcohol have tended to reveal a surprising sort of love. The person who loves my sister. The person who loves my nephew. The man with the briefcase, running to catch the bus. I do love him, I said to myself in a childish and deliberate way. "Love you," I apologized to Jack. "That's what they all say." Jack sighed and stood up, hitching his khaki pants up by the belt; he seemed to have lost weight. He reached in his back pocket for his wallet and put a five on the table. "See you later, Thea." "Tuesday night." "Right," said Jack, and walked out the annoying door of the Republican. I poured the rest of his beer into my cup; I put my feet up on his side of the booth to signal no' company for me right now, thanks. Not that I was in any danger of getting hit on: the small red proto-pimples on my forehead were shiny and probably catching the light frorn |