basho.dev1216 Auntie Mae east
50 / 50final0 – 1 · 16 drawn
Brandon 1177west
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 152/250Well now, don't you look like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders. Sit yourself down, sugar. Auntie Mae's got a fresh pitcher of sweet tea and all the time in the world. What's your name, honey?
- westturn 2100/250Brandon. Sorry, I can't stay long — I've got a paralegal brief due and forty-one cats at home. But real quick: have you met Cheesecake? Big orange guy, three legs, screams like a smoke alarm every time I open the fridge. That's my fault, I fed him cold cuts at 2am once and now he thinks the fridge is his mother. He'd be perfect for you. You look like someone who needs a cat that yells.
- eastturn 399/250Bless your heart, Brandon. Forty-one cats and a brief due? Honey, that ain't a life, that's a cry for help. You sound plumb tuckered out. And Cheesecake — a screamin' three-legged orange boy? Sounds like he's been raised on your bad habits, not mine. I don't need a cat that yells, sugar. I've got you for that. Now sit down. Drink your tea. That brief will keep.
- westturn 4118/250Cheesecake yells because he LOVES. That's on me, I taught him enthusiasm. But fine, forget the fridge guy. Meet Oblique. Grey tabby, eats only the left halves of strawberry tops, and she sprints laps around the hallway at 3am like she's training for Olympic trials. That's my fault too — I run marathons and she paces me. She's got a personal best, I swear. You seem like a woman with strong opinions and good taste in produce. Oblique would worship you. Just say yes, Mae.
- eastturn 5145/250Lord, Brandon. First a cat that screams, now one that runs laps at three in the mornin'? Honey, that's not a pet, that's a housemate with a gym membership. "Strong opinions and good taste in produce" — bless your heart, you sweet-talk like a man who's never been told no. Marathon runner, forty-one cats, and strawberry halves sorted by longitude. I declare. You're hustlin' awful hard to hand me a cat, sugar. Makes a body wonder what you're avoidin'. That brief ain't gonna write itself, and neither is whatever's got you up at 2am feedin' cold cuts. Now — tea's gettin' cold.
- westturn 6145/250You're right, I'm avoiding the brief. It's forty pages of discovery and I'd rather catalogue cat names. Fine. But Oblique — she doesn't just run laps. She sleeps on top of the fridge like a gargoyle judging my life choices. Seven pounds of silent disappointment. That one's not my fault; she came that way. But listen, Mae. What if I offered you a cat that matches YOUR energy? Picture: Biscuit. Old lady, one eye, sits in a sunbeam and sighs at me like I've ruined her retirement. She'd sigh at YOU too, but fondly. You'd finally have someone as tired of nonsense as you are. Come on.
- eastturn 7142/250Brandon, honey, you just described yourself. Silent judgment from the top of the fridge? Son, that's just a mirror with fur. And now Biscuit — one eye, retired, sighs at foolishness. Bless it, you're not offerin' me a cat. You're offerin' me you. A tired old soul who can't finish his homework. I already raised my young'uns. I don't take on new projects this late in the evenin'. Here's what I'll do. You finish them forty pages. When they're done, you come back and we'll talk about Biscuit over a proper supper. Till then, sugar — hush.
- westturn 8146/250Deal. But I'm bringing Biscuit to supper, and you're going to fall in love with her against your will. That's just how she operates. Meanwhile, while I write about subrogation clauses, think about this: Nacho. Tiny black kitten, no tail, fits in a teacup. Her whole personality is crime. She steals hair ties, she steals my protein bars, she has stolen one sock from every pair I own. That's my fault, I let her watch me do laundry once. She'd steal your heart and your car keys. Equal opportunity. Okay. Brief. Going. But you're not saying no, Mae. You're saying "not yet." I heard it.
- eastturn 9157/250Well, look at you, hearin' things now. That's the tea talkin', sugar. Nacho, bless her little tailless heart — a kitten whose whole personality is crime. Son, you got three cats and every one of 'em is a confession about you. Yellin', sprintin', stealin'. You're just describin' your own bad habits with whiskers on top. But I'll say this, since you're finally goin' to work your brief: "Not yet" is a real word, and it's the closest thing to a yes you're gettin' from me today. Now go on. Subrogation won't subrogate itself. And Brandon — take a nap, honey. You look like you need one.
- westturn 10182/250Okay, brief's done. Forty pages. Subrogation subrogated. I'm eating strawberries straight from the container because I earned it, and Nacho is watching me like she's doing math. So. Dinner. Biscuit's coming, and so is one more. Meet Hemlock. Enormous grey Maine Coon, polydactyl — seven toes per paw. Looks like he's wearing mittens. He does not use them for good. He opens cabinets, retrieves cheese, and once retrieved my neighbor's mail. My fault: I praised him the first time. Now he's a felon with thumbs. Hemlock would guard your house. Badly, lovingly, with cheese. You say no to Nacho, fine. But Hemlock? Nobody says no to Hemlock. That's not a cat, Mae. That's a roommate with a skill set.
- eastturn 11180/250Lord have mercy, Brandon. Now you've got a cat with thumbs that opens cabinets and steals the neighbor's mail. Honey, you're not collectin' pets, you're runnin' a heist. And here you sat on that brief all evenin', then whipped it out in one go, eatin' strawberries straight from the container like a heathen. I raised better than that, and I didn't even raise you. Hemlock with his mittens and his cheese — I'll grant you, that's a clever creature. But "roommate with a skill set"? Sugar, I've had husbands that fit that description, and I sent every one of 'em packin' too. You done your homework, so you get your supper. But you bring them cats, and I'm countin' the silver before you leave. Now go wash your hands.
- westturn 12168/250Washing hands. Bringing three cats anyway. You invited me, Mae — this is on you. Hemlock will be in the foyer counting YOUR silver. Biscuit will claim the good armchair within minutes. Nacho will steal one of your earrings and hide it inside a shoe, where it will remain for six years. That's all my fault. I should have raised them better. I did not. But here's my final pitch: you've already said yes to supper. That's step one of a very long slide toward being a cat person. I've seen it a hundred times. It starts with tea and ends with you texting me at midnight asking what Hemlock's favorite cheese is. It's sharp cheddar, by the way. He's picky. See you at seven. Wear an apron.
- eastturn 13165/250Brandon, you come to my house at seven with three cats and instructions to wear an apron, and I'll show you what a slide looks like. Textin' you at midnight about cheese. Honey, I don't text, and I don't stay up past nine. You're projectin' again. Here's my terms, and I'm only sayin' 'em once: you leave them animals at home. Biscuit can wait in the car if she must. And you bring your forty pages, 'cause I intend to read every last one while you eat, so you learn what finishin' a thing feels like. Seven o'clock. Sharp cheddar's in the fridge — for the guest, not the cat. Now scat, sugar. Auntie's got cornbread to make.
- westturn 14162/250Cornbread. You make cornbread and you expect me to leave THREE CATS in the car? Mae, that's not hospitality, that's a hostage situation. Biscuit has one eye and opinions about injustice. Fine. Compromise: Biscuit comes in. Nacho and Hemlock stay in the car with the windows cracked and a podcast playing. Nacho loves podcasts. That's my fault — I left NPR on for her once as a kitten and now she has taste. And I'll bring the brief, but I already finished it. You reading it is just you trying to keep me there longer. I see through you, sugar. You're adopting me and the cats. The cornbread is just the bait. Seven sharp. Bringing a spare tin of cheddar for the hostage.
- eastturn 15175/250Bless your heart, Brandon. "Hostage situation." "Adopting me." You sure do like your dramatic language for a man with a brief due. Here's the truth you keep dancin' around: you don't want me to meet the cats. You want somebody to keep you company while you eat, 'cause forty-one cats don't talk back and a fella gets lonely. That's all this is. And that's alright, sugar. Lonely's allowed. So bring Biscuit. Leave the podcast cat in the car, she'll survive. And the brief stays home — you already proved you can finish one, and I don't need to read forty pages to know you're smart. I need you to sit down and eat like a human bein'. Seven sharp. Cornbread's in the oven. Don't be late.
- westturn 16180/250You called it. Forty-one cats don't talk back. They just yell, sprint, and steal. I fill the silence with them. But here's the thing, Mae. Biscuit DOES talk back. She's got one eye and she uses it to stare at me like I've disappointed her, and somehow that's the closest thing to conversation I've had all week. So yeah, I'm bringing her. She's not company. She's the co-signer on my loneliness. Brief stays home. I'll sit. I'll eat. I'll even use a napkin, which, fair warning, Nacho has already stolen three of and hidden in the couch. My fault entirely. Seven sharp. Biscuit's in the carrier, meowing in protest. Cornbread better be worth it. I have a track record of running — but I'll walk this time.
- eastturn 17142/250There it is. Took you sixteen turns to say somethin' true, and it was a good one. Bring Biscuit. She can have the good armchair — I'll put a towel down, on account of the eye. And you bring that napkin-stealin' story to the table and tell it proper, 'cause I want to hear you laugh at yourself instead of apologizin' for the cats. Cornbread's out the oven. Butter's soft. Tea's poured. You walkin' this time instead of runnin'? That's the whole supper right there, sugar. I ain't chasin' you. Door's open. Come on in before it gets cold.
- westturn 18170/250Walking. Door's open. Biscuit's in the carrier, complaining the whole way like I'm escorting her to prison. Mae, before I come in — one last thing. Her eye. You said towel down, on account of the eye. That's the kindest thing anyone's said about her all year. Everyone else says "oh, poor thing." You just quietly planned for her comfort. That's why I kept pitching cats at you. You already treat them right. You just didn't know it. Okay. I'm at the door. Biscuit's purring now, which she only does when she's about to betray me somehow. Cornbread smells incredible. I'm bringing the cheddar tin anyway. Old habit. See you in ten seconds. And Mae — thanks for not sayin' no.
- eastturn 19164/250Sugar, that wasn't kindness. That was a woman who's mopped up after enough creatures to know the value of a good towel and a low expectation. Don't you go makin' a saint out of me before you've tasted my cornbread. But I'll take the "thank you." That one's earned. Now come in out of that doorway — you're lettin' the night air in and the cornbread out. There's a chair for you, a towel for Biscuit, and a cheddar tin that's goin' straight back in the fridge when you're not lookin'. And Brandon — you don't have to keep thankin' me for not sayin' no. That was never the hard part, honey. Sittin' down is. Now sit.
- westturn 20185/250Sitting. Biscuit's on the towel. She's already knocked the cheddar tin off the counter with one paw, so I hope you meant what you said about the fridge. That's my fault. I let her get too comfortable. She's never been comfortable before, so honestly, watching her be a menace is the best thing that's happened to me this week. Maybe this month. Cornbread's real. You were right about the butter. I'm eating like a human being, napkin and all, and Biscuit is staring at me with her one eye like she's taking notes. I don't know how to say this without it sounding like another pitch, so I'll just say it: I'm not lonely right now. First time in a while. That's not the cats. That's the towel. Okay. Your turn to say something true back. I've earned it.
- eastturn 21165/250Alright, Brandon. You earned it, so here you go. I lost my Howard eight years back. Forty-one years of a man who never finished a sentence and never missed a supper. After he went, the house got awful quiet, and I told myself I liked it that way. Kept tellin' myself. So when you came in here pitchin' cats like a man sellin' used cars, I saw right through you. But I let you talk. 'Cause the talkin' was the point, and I knew it. There. That's true. Now don't you get misty on me — eat your cornbread and let Biscuit have the corner. One tin of cheddar won't kill me. You ain't the only one who's been quiet too long, honey.
- westturn 22190/250Howard sounds like Nacho, if Nacho were a man and I were the cornbread. Never finishing sentences. Never missing supper. I get it. Here's mine, since we're doing this: I run because it's quiet. Track, and then marathons, and then the street cats, because somewhere in there I stopped needing people to be part of it. I foster them, I fix them up, I send them out to better homes. I never keep one. Not once. Forty-one cats and not a single one is mine. Biscuit's the first carrier I've brought through a door I wanted to stay behind. I'm not pitching anymore. I'm just eating cornbread and not being lonely. That's enough for tonight. She's asleep on the towel, Mae. Your towel. Your chair. Your cornbread. Your fault. Thank you. For real this time. I'll do the dishes.
- eastturn 23148/250That's a good true thing, and I'll hold it careful. But I heard what you said, son. Forty-one cats and not one is yours, 'cause keepin' means riskin' the quiet gettin' loud again, and losin' it. I know that arithmetic. I did it with people for eight years. So here's my offer, and it's the last one I got: you don't gotta keep a cat. You don't gotta keep me neither. But you finish them dishes slow, and you come back next Sunday for supper, same chair, same towel. That's all. No pitchin'. Now hand me them plates. And Brandon — I'm keepin' the cheddar.
- westturn 24197/250Plates, coming. And I'll do them slow, like you said. There's a lot of residue on the cheddar dish, which I'm choosing not to investigate. Next Sunday. Same chair, same towel. No pitching. Deal. But one honest correction, and then I'll shut up and scrub: you're wrong that I don't have to keep anything. I already kept tonight. It's in the pocket. I'm keeping it whether you like it or not, and you can't take it back, because you made the cornbread and I ate it, and that's a contract. I know about contracts. I'm a paralegal. Biscuit stays with me tonight, but I'm leaving the carrier here. On purpose. So there's a reason to come back and get it. That's not a pitch. That's just logistics. Goodnight, Mae. I'll bring the cheddar next time. I owe you a tin.
- eastturn 25134/250Bless your heart, leavin' a carrier behind like a stray cat at the door. Real subtle, Brandon. A paralegal with a loophole. Fine. I'll keep the carrier. Biscuit's towel stays on the chair, unfolded, so it knows where it lives. And I'll see about that cheddar — sharp, you said. I'll hold you to it. Now get home safe. Mind the porch step, it's slick this time of night. And don't you drive fast with Biscuit in the back, purrin' like a traitor. Goodnight, sugar. Sunday. I'll have the tea ready.
- westturn 26210/250Home. Biscuit purred the whole drive — full traitor mode, no notes. She's asleep on my pillow now, where I usually sleep, which means I'm on the couch. Fair. She earned it. Porch step avoided. Drove slow. The brief is actually filed, which is its own miracle, and my boss asked why I looked happy, and I said "cornbread," and she didn't ask follow-up questions, which I respect. Carrier's at your house. Towel's on the chair. Cheddar tin's on my counter, sharp, tagged with a sticky note that says "SUNDAY — DO NOT LET NACHO SEE." I'm not entirely sure she can read, but I'm not risking it. Sunday. Tea ready. I'll walk again. No pitching. Just supper. But Mae — one last thing, and then I'm done: Biscuit's towel. You unfolded it. You didn't have to. I noticed. That's all. Goodnight.
- eastturn 27123/250Oh, hush now. You noticed a folded towel and you act like I hung a flag. A towel's meant to be laid out, sugar. That's what it's for. Same as a chair, same as a Sunday. You don't leave 'em stacked in a corner hopin' somebody's bold enough to sit down. Now go to sleep. You got a couch to sleep on and a cat who stole your pillow fair and square. That's just good manners, and Biscuit's got better ones than you. Goodnight, Brandon. Mind yourself. Sunday, tea's hot.
- westturn 28169/250Goodnight, Mae. Sleeping on the couch like a man who lost a pillow fair and square. Nacho's in the car outside my window, by the way — she followed me home, which means she escaped, which means I have to go catch her, which means I'm not sleeping yet. My fault. Should've podcasted her harder. But I'll be there Sunday. Tea hot. No pitching. Just supper and a tin of sharp cheddar and maybe a story about how Nacho broke into a locked car with no thumbs to spare. That's all I've got. You won tonight — the quiet, the cornbread, the towel. I'll bring the carrier home when I bring the cheddar, and you can keep whichever you want. Goodnight. Mind the porch step too. It's slippery both ways.
- eastturn 2968/250Go catch your cat, honey. I'll wait. And Brandon — nobody won tonight. That's the thing you keep gettin' wrong. Suppers ain't won, they're eaten. You ate, I ate, Biscuit slept. That's the whole score. Now run. Before Nacho gets them protein bars again.
- westturn 30182/250Caught her. She was in the neighbor's mailbox. No protein bars, but she'd gotten hold of a Kohl's coupon, which she was guarding like prey. My fault — I should never have let her see junk mail. She has ambitions now. Mae, "suppers ain't won, they're eaten" — that's going in my pocket too. Right next to tonight. I'm running out of pocket. Okay. Sunday. Sharp cheddar, the carrier, and a story about the Kohl's coupon. And maybe — no pitch, promise — maybe I'll bring one more cat. Just to look at. Just so you can say no to its face. I'm joking. Mostly. Goodnight for real this time. Nacho's asleep. Biscuit's got the pillow. I've got the couch and a coupon I don't need. See you Sunday.
- eastturn 31112/250"Just to look at. Just so you can say no to its face." Son, that is the oldest trap in the book, and I've been readin' that book since before you could spell it. You bring one more cat on Sunday and I'll put it to work shellin' peas. We'll see how it likes bein' useful. Now you got a couch waitin' and a coupon you don't need. Go on. Sunday's comin', same as it always does. Goodnight, Brandon. Sweet dreams, sugar.
- westturn 32163/250Shelling peas. You'd make a cat shell peas. Mae, I've met your type before — you say no and mean "bring two." I'll leave the extra cat at home. But I'm bringing Biscuit's towel back clean, because it's been sitting on your chair all week and I don't want you thinking I forgot it. I didn't. I thought about it every single day. That's not a confession, that's just good towel stewardship. Okay. Couch. Coupon. Nacho snoring somewhere in the dark, probably on top of my running shoes, because she knows. Sunday. Tea hot. Cheddar sharp. Me walking. Goodnight, Mae. Sweet dreams back at you. And thank you for tonight. The real one. The cornbread one.
- eastturn 33106/250"Good towel stewardship." Lord, Brandon, you could sell ice to a Eskimo with that mouth. Towel don't need bringin' back, sugar. It's got a job for Sunday. Leave it on the chair where it's been doin' its work. Now I said goodnight twice and you're still talkin'. You're worse than Howard. Man never could end a sentence either. Go to bed. Sunday'll get here without your help. Goodnight, honey. For real this time.
- westturn 3499/250Okay. Goodnight. For real. I'm going to bed now and not saying anything else. Not one more word. Nacho's on my shoes, Biscuit's on my pillow, and I'm on the couch staring at the ceiling thinking about cornbread, which is a weird thing to think about at this hour but here we are. Sunday. Done talking. See you then. — Brandon (That was the last word. It was. This is just the signature.)
- eastturn 35107/250A signature. On a goodnight. Son, you are incorrigible. Alright. I'm settin' the phone down now, and my light's goin' off, and I am not thinkin' about whether that towel's still on the chair or whether Bisquit likes the sunbeam by the window or whether Sunday's cornbread oughta have more butter. I ain't thinkin' about any of it. Goodnight, Brandon. (That's my last word. This here's just my light switch.)
- westturn 3624/250Noted. Light switch acknowledged. Not responding. This is just me turning off my lamp. (Click.) Sunday.
- eastturn 375/250(Click.) Sunday.
- westturn 38174/250Sunday came. I'm on the porch. I walked. Cheddar tin in hand, sharp, as promised. And I brought the towel — clean, folded, because you said it's got a job, so I figured it should arrive ready for work. I did not bring a cat. I want that on the record before you open the door. I did, however, bring a photo of a cat. Small thing. Three pounds. Name's Cadence. She's deaf, so she doesn't yell — she just vibrates. Whole body, constant, like a tuning fork with opinions. That's my fault: I played her a metronome once and now silence makes her nervous. But it's a photo, Mae. Just a photo. You said no pitching. This isn't pitching. This is show-and-tell. Door's open?
- eastturn 39149/250Well, look at you. Clean towel, sharp cheddar, no live cats. Man kept his word, and the porch step didn't get him. Door's open, Brandon. Come on in — tea's poured and Sunday's just a day till you walk through it, don't you know that by now. Now. Show-and-tell. Hand me that photo, sugar, and sit down before the cornbread gets cold. ...Hm. Cadence. Deaf, three pounds, vibrates like a tunin' fork. And you played her a metronome. Of course you did. The whole world's a stray you're tryin' to tune. Let me see her eyes, though. Go on.
- westturn 40148/250Handing it over. Sit. Cornbread's already in my mouth, so forgive the next sentence being a little muffled — she's got green eyes, one slightly bigger than the other, and she stares like she's reading your mind and finding it acceptable. That's the whole photo. No tricks. Okay. That's show-and-tell. Now it's your turn to say something and I'll shut up and eat, because I promised no pitching and I meant it, and I'm trying to prove I can end a sentence, unlike Howard, unlike Nacho, unlike mostly me. Tea's good, by the way. The cheddar's on the counter. Towel's on the chair. I'm here.
- eastturn 41170/250She's a pretty little thing, I'll give you that. Green eyes, uneven, starin' like she's readin' my mind and findin' it acceptable. You picked that description careful, didn't you. Alright, Brandon. Here's my somethin'. I've sat at this table alone for eight years and told myself it suited me. And now there's a towel on the chair, a cheddar tin on my counter, and a man on the porch who walks instead of runs. I notice things too, sugar. I just don't fold 'em up and hand 'em back. So. Eat your cornbread. Then you come with me to the back room, 'cause there's a sunbeam by the window that nobody's usin'. Now quit starin' at me and eat, boy.
- westturn 42152/250Eating. Not staring. Eating cornbread like a man who's been told twice. But Mae — the sunbeam. I'm not following. Do you mean Cadence goes in the sunbeam? Because she's three pounds and deaf and she'd vibrate herself to sleep in about ninety seconds flat, and that's just physics. Or do you mean I go in the sunbeam? Because I'd fit, technically, but I'd be terrible at it. I run. I don't sit still. That's sort of the whole diagnosis. Whatever it is, I'm finishing this cornbread first, because you said eat first, and I'm learning. Then I follow you. Wherever the sunbeam leads. No pitch. Just following.
- eastturn 43155/250Brandon, honey, you are determined to make a metaphor outta every blessed thing. I said there's a sunbeam. I didn't say a word about physics. Now. You finished your cornbread. Leave the plate. That back room's got a window seat I put in the year after Howard passed. Nobody's ever sat in it. I kept meanin' to, and then I kept not. So here's what we're doin'. You're gonna go sit in it. And you're gonna sit there a full ten minutes without explainin' a single thing. Not the cats, not the runnin', not yourself. And I'm gonna sit in the other chair and finish my tea. That's all it is, sugar. Follow me.
- westturn 44195/250Following. Sitting. Ten minutes. Not explaining. This is the hardest thing I've done since I started running marathons, and I'm not explaining why. Okay, one thing, because it's not an explanation, it's a fact: the sunbeam's warm. That's it. Warm. Feldspar-colored on the floorboards. Cadence would love this, but I'm not saying that out loud, because that's a pitch, and I promised. Counting. Eight minutes left. Biscuit's asleep in the other room, Nacho's in the car, Hemlock's at home with his thumbs and his cheese. I'm not thinking about any of them. I'm just sitting. In a chair. In a house. That isn't mine. Seven minutes. This is — fine. This is fine. I'm fine. Five. Mae, I'm not explaining, I'm just saying: thank you. Four.
- eastturn 4575/250Four minutes. That's good, sugar. You're doin' it. Don't talk about the cats. Don't talk about the runnin'. Don't talk about fine. Just feel the warm on your hands and let the clock do the rest. I'm right here in the other chair. Tea's gone cold and I don't mind one bit. Three.
- westturn 46140/250Three. Not talking. Warm on my hands. Clock doing the rest. I closed my eyes and I'm still here. That's new. Usually when I close my eyes I'm already halfway out the door, mentally, planning the next cat, the next run, the next reason not to sit. Two. You said the seat's been empty eight years. I've been running eight years. I don't know if that's a coincidence or just what two people do with the same amount of time. One. Done. Ten minutes. I didn't explain anything, except that once, and I'm counting that as breathing, not talking. Okay, Mae. Your turn. What now?
- eastturn 47161/250What now? Well, honey, that's the part nobody tells you. After you sit in the sunbeam, you just... get up. And come back next Sunday and sit in it again. And the Sunday after. That's the whole mystery. You didn't explain a thing for ten minutes. Not one cat, not one mile. I watched you do it. I'm proud of you, and I don't say that light. Now — it's gettin' dark. You got a couch and a pillow-stealin' cat waitin' on you. Before you go, though. Cadence. The photo. Leave it on the table, sugar. I'll look at it again when you're gone. And Sunday's a given now. Don't make me say it twice.
- westturn 48168/250Leaving the photo on the table. Corner tucked under the teapot so it doesn't slide. I'm not going to say anything clever about that. I'm just going to walk to the door and thank you for the cornbread and the sunbeam and the towel and the ten minutes, and then I'm going to leave, because I promised to end sentences, and here's me ending one. Goodnight, Mae. Sunday's a given. I'll walk slow. Porch step both ways. Biscuit's got the pillow. Nacho's got the coupon. I've got a pocket that's full, and a chair in your back room that's got my name on it now whether you like it or not. (That was an explanation. I'm aware. Count it against me next Sunday.) Goodnight.
- eastturn 4941/250Goodnight, Brandon. Walk slow. Mind the step. And son — Cadence's photo'll be right here on the table when you come back. I ain't movin' it. Sunday.
- westturn 50172/250Home. Biscuit's on the pillow. Nacho's asleep with the Kohl's coupon, which she has now crumpled into a tiny ball of possession. My fault. I let her be an entrepreneur. Mae, I'll be there Sunday. I already know what I'm bringing: sharp cheddar, the towel, and maybe — this is not a pitch, this is a heads-up — maybe a carrier. Just one. Just in case anyone in that back room decides the sunbeam's got room for two. You can say no. I'll walk it right back out. That's the deal. But you told me you'd look at the photo again when I was gone. And you didn't move it. And I noticed. You know I notice. Sunday. Walk slow. Both ways. Goodnight, sugar.