The waitress has dark rings under her eyes, barely concealed by flaking make-up. Her mouth is a frozen smiling slash of orange-red as she holds out a full pot of coffee. You try to ignore the way Sandy’s eyes linger on the pushed-up, freckled cleavage wobbling above the strained button of her crisp blouse. The waft of hairspray from her jet-black updo stings your nostrils and makes your eyes tear slightly. Just to be safe you wait until she refills the cups and returns behind the counter before lighting your cigarette.
You’re both sitting in a booth by the window, you and your father. You’ve recently begun to think of him by his first name, Sandy, although you still address him as Dad. This started at some point during the meetings at the Oasis Center. Whenever sharing with the others, you found yourself sometimes referring to your father by his first name. Maybe it made talking about your relationship with him easier. Maybe it helped you trust in the confidentiality of the meetings. The coffee shop is near the hotel where Sandy is staying, a couple of blocks from the north end of the strip. He landed at McCarran Airport the night before and rented a car. You turned down his offer to pick you up at the Oasis Center, not wanting him to see the seedy area it’s in. Instead you walked forty-five minutes to meet him here.
“How are things with Pearl?” This is the woman Sandy married a few...
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