My first instinct was to grab her with both arms. I hadn’t thought this through, too much bourbon I suppose, but it was a terrible idea. I wrapped my arms around her, grabbed hold, and we both flew across the back of the van towards the doors, falling on top of the meat slicer. The back of her head hit the door as my chest met her forehead and I fell on top of her. The first foot I placed broke the glass of a picture frame, the next something in her bag.
“We’re okay!” we shouted in response to a muffled Spanish inquiry. Tommy was sitting calmly in the corner with his records, Brendan standing with his legs spread apart, bracing himself while hiccuping from exhaustion, and there we were climbing to our feet, stepping over the meat slicer. We look through the window into the cab where David, out driver, has a bourbon in one hand and the other is tuning the radio. I remember climbing into darkness, the back of his delivery van, I remember the terrible Italian singer / songwriter and her red dress and awkward smile, I remember our calm start with veggie burgers and wine, but I don’t remember the rest of that night.
This must be a Sunday.