treasure awaits

Late. Fucking Kieran. Some things never change. A block of ice in my gut every time the door swings open, from which this nasty little thought gives me some distance.

He won't show. My gut knows.

Or maybe he will, half an hour now after the appointed time, maybe later, shambling in with his wild hair and wasted mind. For what?

The undeleted texts still burning in my phone:
how did u get this # where r u
have my ways u in Beantwn meet me u know where 
why
just come treasure awaits 
more info lil bro, money not an option
treasure awaits. K


I nod to the waitress for more bad coffee, bad idea. Eyes shut against the bitter taste and the syrupy air of diner breakfast. Me at the breakfast table, not late but there, right there as Ma and Dad pretended to listen but only waited for him. Him appearing whenever, smelling of whatever. The fights then, the threats, the way he could waltz out as easily as in. Even when he started staying away for months at a time, he was all they could think about.

I open my eyes, check instinctively for purse and briefcase, pull out my phone.

Brian going to be late plz resched ten am mtg thx Angela


Last time he looked so good, that beaming politician's smile and dark merry eyes, and he seemed well-fed and calm as we chatted over waffles in this same old place. He wore one of those braided leather chokers, like a young surfer dude, and he had brought me a single red rose. I had planned to demand that he roll up his sleeves and instead ended up laughing myself into tears over old stories about nuns, Dad and our uncles stumbling home, the old Mustang. I know the Irish song and dance, the comfortable bullshit, and no matter how stony my heart, when he starts singing I have always joined in the chorus.

As I handed him the cash I knew I would never see it again.

Angela, lass, you're an angel. Fucking Kieran. Not this time.

The door swings open and the old bell sounds. He won't show, I think hopefully, fearfully, as I turn to look.