Lullaby for the Rain Girl by Christopher Conlon Page B

chocolate or something? My treat.”
    “Are you sure you have money?”
    “What do you mean, am I sure I have money? Of course I have money. What makes you ask that?”
    “Well...” She eyed me up and down. “No offense, but to be honest, you look sort of like a homeless person.”
    “What? How dare you!” I played it lightly, but the comment hurt—because I suddenly realized that it was true, or at least partly true. My clothes—when was the last time I’d washed my shirt? Glancing down, I saw that a button was missing from its middle, and the part of the tail was hanging out over my belt and protruding gut. Further down I noticed a rather obvious oval-shaped grease stain on my left pant leg. And one of my shoes was untied.
    I tucked in the shirt as best I could and knelt to tie my shoe. It wasn’t much, but it helped. “There,” I said, standing. “Am I acceptable to Your Highness now? ‘No offense,’ she says.”
    She giggled. “I calls ’em like I sees ’em, Ben. By the way, it wouldn’t kill you to shave once in a while.”
    I ran my hand reflexively over the stubble on my face. “C’mon. Less talk and more hot chocolate drinking.” We crossed the street and stepped into Dugan’s. I ordered us two steaming mugs of cocoa with marshmallows and then, reaching into my pocket, realized with a sinking sensation that her suspicion had been right. I had no money on me after all. Not even a credit card. Nothing. She watched me rifling my pockets with a bemused expression, finally reaching into her own coat.
    “No, wait,” I said, trying to will through sheer mind power alone an unexpected five-dollar bill to materialize somewhere on my person. Ignoring me, she brought out a bill and handed it to the girl behind the counter and got change.
    “C’mon, Ben,” she said, taking her mug and heading to a table.
    I followed her with my mug and sat. “I’m—I’m not usually like this. So disorganized, I mean. I’ll pay you back. Tomorrow. I’m awfully sorry, kiddo.”
    She blew on the marshmallow foam at the top of her cocoa. “Just drink your hot chocolate,” she said, a small smile on her face.
    We sat in silence for a minute or two, sipping. Finally she said: “You’re not a very happy person, are you, Ben?”
    “Me?” I glanced out the window at the darkening afternoon. “I don’t know. I get by all right.”
    “Do you?”
    “Sure.”
    She looked at me. “So what are you writing these days? When is your next book coming out?”
    “Well, I don’t know exactly. I’m in the middle of something right now.” Of course it was a lie. I was in the middle of nothing.
    “Can I see it?”
    “See it? You mean the manuscript? No. It’s not finished. It’s too rough. I never show my in-progress stuff to people, anyway.”
    “I won’t criticize. I’d like to see how a writer works.”
    I shook my head.
    She scowled and drank her cocoa. “Ben, that man—your stepson?”
    “Yes?”
    “You don’t get along with him, do you?”
    “It’s—” I thought about it. “It’s a complicated situation. I like Vincent just fine, but—well—it’s complicated.”
    “You always use that word when you’re talking about—that. Your divorce and all.”
    “Yeah. Well, it’s because it’s true. Human relationships are always complicated.”
    “Why?”
    I shrugged. “I guess because humans are complicated.”
    “Oh.” She seemed to consider it. “Do you still love your wife?”
    “Kate? Um…Sure I do. As a friend. We…” I stopped, felt my head begin to throb lightly. “I, um…No. Truthfully? The answer to that question is no.”
    “People say that love never dies. I’ve heard that.”
    “Mm. People are wrong. It dies, all right. But it can be a long time dying. And it can be—confusing.”
    She nodded.
    “Gosh,” I said, “this is kind of a heavy conversation, isn’t it? Why don’t we talk about something nicer? Why don’t you tell me some things you like to do?”
    “Me?”