“Keep out” signs are plastered to the door and window, but I walk in anyway. Deflated balloons, ribbons, and stickers litter every inch of the walls. The mistress of the house appears, her deep scoop neck tee on backwards so as to expose her work-tanned back rather than her chest. Nail polish is smeared across her fingernails, overlapping her skin by a quarter inch around the perimeter. Those fingers carry her only mug, now filled with coffee, down the hallway. When you realize she’s not coming back, you follow. A cowboy and indian movie awaits, paused where she left off.
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