“Hate is a strong word. I’m beginning to see why my dad liked it so much.”

It was actually good to see him relaxing. He needed it before he popped a blood vessel in his brain. Or someone in the face.

She laughed when he winced with each sip, forcing the alcohol down.

“Smooth,” he said, winking.

The sun was just starting to set when the credits rolled.

“I’ll be happy to go to the porsh,” she said.

“Here, let me help you.”

“I’ve got it. Why don’t you get me a soda?”

She shuffled past the fan and clicked it off. This was the time of day for the loons to come out, and she didn’t want to miss them. There was something so tranquilizing about their musical ululations. When dusk came, she’d mute the television and listen for them, falling asleep for her nighttime nap to their lullaby cries.

Andrew came out with a soda for her and a refill on his whisky.

“So, you’re becoming a hardcore drinker now, huh?”

He tipped his glass. “I’m at least going to give it the old college try.” He looked wary, as if he expected her to scold him like a child.

“Well, you’ve earned it.” She kissed his cheek. A loon sang out and she smiled.

It was frustrating for her to feel so shaky inside when all she’d done was walk a few feet onto the porch. Her hips and shoulders ached especially badly today. What made her pause before sitting down was that microwave feeling that ran up her spine. It came and went in seconds.

What the fuck? I hate my body.

Normally, this was when she’d vocalize how much she wished she could trade her body in for a new one. Andrew would sympathize with her, or if it had been a bad day, give a small nod, absorbing her litany of complaints and desire to do some body snatching. It wasn’t until they’d come up here and gotten away from her comfort zone of discomfort that she realized how often she complained. People around them marveled at how she took each setback like a marine, but only Andrew knew the real Kate and how she was handling her illness.

Bravery was appropriate for her public face. But when she was home and it was just them, she felt she could collapse, gripe, cry, bitch, bemoan, and lash out.

Not to say that he took it all with aplomb. They’d had some hellacious fights over the years. Andrew never said he was tired of hearing her complain. When they fought, it was usually over something stupid like Where’s the remote? or I told you not to do the dishes; the doctor said you have to stay off your feet.

Andrew was a passionate man, just as she was a passionate woman, and their squabbles could be the stuff of legend.