Chapter 1
The sun shone through the living room window and woke Ronald Brenner from a dreamless sleep. As he sat upright on the couch, he grunted in response to the stiffness in his back and the deep pounding inside his head.
Brenner grabbed a soft pack of Marlboros from the coffee table. With a shake of his wrist, he loosened one, then lit it. The cigarette trembled in his hand while a wave of nausea traveled from his stomach up to his throat. He swallowed against the flow and was left with a burning in his esophagus.
Even though he’d only inhaled once on it, he crushed the Marlboro in the nearby ashtray.
Using the arm of the couch to steady himself, Brenner stood. He held onto the piece of furniture longer than was necessary, but he was afraid the room might suddenly spin.
It didn’t.
He grunted again, then released the couch. He took a tentative step. Then another. Soon, he was walking.
Brenner passed through his bedroom on the way to the bathroom. On the bed, Donna Terrell lay in unbuttoned jeans and a light blue T-shirt shoved above her unclasped bra. He shook his head, immediately regretted the motion, and continued toward the shower.
***
An hour later, Brenner half-heartedly dipped a brush into a paint can. Yesterday he scraped a wire brush over the short picket fence that ran the perimeter of the property. Today was supposed to be the glory work. It didn’t feel so glorious.
His head banged an out-of-rhythm cadence while he dragged the paintbrush up and down the various wood planks. The new white paint spitefully reflected the sun and caused his eyes to ache.
The door to his apartment opened, and Donna stepped tentatively out. She spotted him, then looked away with what Brenner would have described to a stranger as modesty, but he really knew to be shame. She glanced back at him, then hurried next door to her side of the duplex.
He sighed and studied the can of paint between his knees.
A cold beer from his refrigerator would have tasted nice right about then.
***
A couple of hours passed before Donna came back outside. By then, Brenner had made it to the other side of the yard. He dragged the brush with more pace and less care than before. His head hurt worse due to the squinting caused by the sun reflecting on the white paint.
He ruefully shook his head. He was a fool for thinking painting fence slats would be more enjoyable than scraping.
Donna waved at him—the cautious gesture of someone who didn’t know the words necessary to start an awkward conversation. She sat on the front step of the porch that both units shared. Donna cupped her hands for a moment, then leaned her head back to exhale a thin line of smoke. She didn’t look in his direction again as she worked on her cigarette.
Brenner finished the plank he was painting, laid the brush across the top of the can, and stood. His knees popped, and there was a sharp pain in the middle of his shoulder blades. He rotated his neck and was rewarded with an additional pounding in his head. Slowly, Brenner ambled over to the porch and joined Donna.
He lit a cigarette for himself. “How you doing?”
She shrugged. Her long, dishwater blond hair was tucked behind her ears, but several strands hung loosely in front of her forehead.
“About last night—”
She waved a hand to stop him. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Don’t say you’re sorry.”
“That’s not something I normally do.”
Donna glanced at him before looking at her cigarette. “Me, neither.”
They sat quietly for several minutes. Donna finally broke the silence. “I’m going to a meeting.”
“They have one now?”
“It’s not my usual.”
She dropped her cigarette to the sidewalk and crushed it with the toe of her shoe. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a red plastic coin.
“Here,” she said, handing it to Brenner. “That’s my ninety-day chip.”
He took the plastic coin, turning it over in his hand.
Donna pushed off the steps and stood. “The next time I come over asking for a drink—”
Brenner looked up expectantly.
“—tell me to fuck off.”
She left then and didn’t look back.
