Page 56 of Puck the Coach's Son
He sits on the edge of the bed.
He smokes. He looks at me. He doesn't touch me. He's giving me something. A distance that isn't a rejection. I understand it without being told.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
He exhales smoke out the window.
“Couple of things.”
“Okay.”
The cigarette glows at the tip.
“That was good.”
“Yes.”
He looks at me sideways.
“I mean for you.”
“I know.”
Ash drops from the tip of his cigarette into the tray.
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Say more than yes.”
I put the water bottle on the nightstand.
“It was good. It was.” I stop. I look at the wall. “I didn't know my body did that.”
He nods slow.
“Yeah.”
“Is it like that every time?”
“No.”
His jaw works around the cigarette.
“Oh.”
“Not for most people.”
“Oh.”
He taps ash into the ashtray on the sill.
“Your dad…”
“What about him?”
