Dressing

     “Yesterday," you said, "I went through my closet and paired a tie with each one of my shirts."
     You seemed pleased, and Siera smiled a little.
     "I've got one whole room just to get dressed in," you added.  “Since Danah moved out,” you didn't.
     She wanted to hug you, but couldn't - it was a rule, kind of.  No hugging, no kissing.  Not since she moved out.  It was implied.
     So you sat with her on the couch, and tempted Berkeley to sit between you.  The cat took up a lot of room, but your fingers brushed hers along the long, narrow expanses of tabby-stripe.
     "So, hey.  Thanks."
     "Please don't say thank you."
     "What do you want me to say?  I appreciate that you came out here."  You stood up, overly conscious of your bare ass and the fact that Siera and Berkeley weren't moving.  You yelled from your dressing room.
     "Listen, I'm really tired." You pulled on a pair of boxers.  A t-shirt.  "And I have to work early tomorrow."  Jeans, tight ones.  You picked them up one by one from their place, laid out on what was Danah's bed.  You eyed Siera from the curve of kitchen doorway.  She hadn't moved.  Berkeley was in her lap, the whore.
     “Do you want me to leave?”
     You spread your hands and retreated to the kitchen.
     “I’m fine.  I’m in for the night.”
     You looked over the room, noticing Berkeley’s empty food bowl.  A short inventory of the cabinets produced no food.  Hell.  Wondering how long it had been empty, you dumped a can of Vienna sausages into it.  The thin, oily liquid reflected the light over the sink, a white bar against pink plastic.  The TV came on in the other room.
     “Wanna watch a movie?”
     “I don’t know, Siera.  Kinda tired.”
     You sat down.  Siera reached for your hand, and you reached for the cat.  “She likes abuse,” you explained, roughing up her fur.
     “Hey, I’m gonna go.” Pulled her shirt around her. Slid into her jeans. Stood up.
     “I’ll see you at work.”
     “Okay.”  Your eyes were on the TV, on the commercial there.  “Careful backing up around the side of the house.  Don’t start turning until you’re clear of it.”
     “Goodnight.”

     Outside, she pictured you, padding out to the back deck in bare feet to watch.  The smilie-face tattoos were there, a smiling one with a bow on, and a smirking one eyeing her, one on the top of each foot.  You would stand with your hands in your pockets, making sure she cleared the brick corner.  You would wave.

     Inside, you pictured the way she would play the song she always played when coming to visit you, the delicate mixture of happy and sad she had tried to explain to you.  She’d pause for a moment, smiling to herself, and start backing up the car, tapping the wheel cheerfully.  She’d turn it too fast and crush the azaleas, as she had so many times before, or scrape all the blue off the passenger door.  She never listened.