Page 31 of Blind Prophet

Six years and two months, but adding the months sounds pathetic.

What’s worse is I saw her, but she didn’t see me.

“How’s she look?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been six years. Has she gained weight? Wrinkled? Gone gray? What is she now? Mid-thirties? Probably not gray, and she’s American, so she’d cover it.”

She’s thirty-one. “She looks the same.”Elegant. Beautiful. Perfect.

“So you’ve buggered off to your study, and she’s…what? Hanging with your pops?”

“God, no.” The response is immediate. Dad doesn’t need to know she’s here. He especially doesn’t need to know I never filed for divorce.

Are you a fucking imbecile?

It’s a question I’ve asked myself countless times in my father’s booming roar.

“I always liked Caroline.”

Me too.

“When I think of her…you know what I remember?”

“What?” I press my shoulder against the glass and crane my neck to see more of the house in case she’s near a window.

“Those tiny pearl earrings she always wore and her properly fitting tops?—”

“Do not go there.” If he’s about to talk about her breasts…

He chuckles.

Yes, that’s where he was going.

“A right cool bird. Too fucking elegant and poised. Made getting her tossed a load of fun. Remember that night we had to carry her home, and she was singing…what’s the bloke’s name?”

“Neil Diamond.”

“Yeah. She had a playlist filled with Neil Diamond…god awful taste in music. Played songs from a cover band of that shite. Super Diamond, right? Like…what nut listens to cover bands on their iPod? Of course, that was back before Spotify dominated.”

When things were simpler. My breath fogs the glass in a nearly perfect circle.

“And now you’re hiding from her?”

“I’m not hiding.”

“You’re not working.”

Fucker.

“I am working, so…”

“Liar.”

On this point, he’s not wrong. “I’m going to tell you something I’ve told no one.”

“Go on.”

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