Cat Sitter on a Hot Tin Roof by Blaize Clement

trotted over to join them. Only Paco could manage to look slim and fit in slouchy black sweatpants and a floppy white T-shirt. The pants even accentuated the fact that he has the most gorgeous butt in the universe.
    Gorgeous butt or not, he looked lonely.
    He slung his free arm over my shoulder and we stood taking in the floating sky banners of turquoise and hot pink and orange. We didn’t speak until the colors had finally faded and the sun’s glittering path from horizon to shore disappeared.
    As the surf wrote frothy messages on the sand, Paco said, “Have you eaten?”
    “No, and I’m starving.”
    “Me too.”
    We both sighed in unison. Without Michael to feed us, we were like newly hatched chicks without a mother.
    Paco said, “There’s some turkey and stuff in the fridge.”
    I said, “We could make sandwiches.”
    We both perked up. Sandwiches weren’t as good as what Michael would have fed us, but we had solved the dinner problem, and we had each other.
    I said, “I’ll be down in ten minutes,” and loped upstairs.
    Ten minutes later, I skipped down barefoot and still slightly damp from a speed shower, but decently covered in elastic-waist cotton pants and an oversized T-shirt, a female version of what Paco wore.
    In the kitchen, Ella was perched on her stool looking wistfully at the spread on the butcher-block island. Paco had hauled out everything remotely related to sandwich making, and was crouched in front of the refrigerator poking into its innards.
    He said, “I can’t find the horseradish mustard.”
    “On the door. What kind of beer do you have?”
    He held up a dark glass bottle with a long neck. “Some exotic stuff Michael got at the Sarasota Brewing Company. You can have Golden Wheat, Midnight Pass Porter, or Sunset Red.”
    “Ooh, cool. I’ll have the porter.”
    I got plates and made room for them by shoving aside cutting boards holding sliced turkey and ham, sliced tomatoes and onions. There was a loaf of pumpernickel bread and one of rye, along with jars of mayonnaise, three kinds of mustard, two kinds of pickles, black and green olives, several varieties of relish, both mild and hot salsa, and some things I didn’t recognize. Also chips, both potato and corn. We could have fed half of Siesta Key.
    We took seats and fell on the food like happy cannibals, smearing big globs of mayonnaise and mustard on bread and layering on meat and condiments to hoggish heights. Being a lady, I daintily cut my sandwich in half, on the diagonal. Paco just held his carefully so nothing would slip out the bottom. For a few minutes, the only sound was the crunch of crisp pickles and snap of chips.
    After a while, I said, “You know the woman I told you about? The one with the sadistic surgeon husband?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Well, he’s found her. This morning I overheard them talking. He was scary.”
    “All the more reason for you to stay out of it. That woman’s situation sounds like a plane crash about to happen.”
    “She needs a friend, Paco. That’s all I’m offering.”
    “Sounds to me like she needs a good lawyer. Maybe a good shrink.”
    “Just because she left her husband doesn’t make her crazy.”
    “I’m just saying she needs more help than you can give her.”
    I couldn’t argue with that, so we chewed for a few more minutes without talking.
    But I’m the one who, when I was five years old and made to sit in a corner in kindergarten because I talked too much, told my mother that if you went too long without talking all your mouth bones would grow together. I don’t have any trouble with silence if I’m alone, but when another person is present, my mouth is still afraid all its bones will fuse if I don’t speak.
    I said, “You know those songs or commercials that get stuck in your head?”
    “They’re called ear worms. Comes from some German word that sounds like ear worms and means the same thing. Don’t remember what it is.”
    “Huh. Well, I’ve got one. I keep