Further Joy by John Brandon

yet.”
    Pauline was quiet. Then she said, “Damn.”
    â€œDon’t worry, I can do that to anyone. Trick of the trade.” The bartender ate one of Pauline’s chips. “Stale,” she said. She gave the basket a shake, rattling her bracelets, and walked off toward the kitchen with it.
    Pauline went out to the balcony and found Mal hanging things. Some shop had gone under and Mal had plundered a birdfeeder and a set of wind chimes. She had neglected to pick up birdseed, so Pauline emptied a can of mixed nuts into the feeder. The two of them sat as still as they could, occasionally making a kissy bird noise. Mal was in her accustomed spot on the banister, a chime dangling inches above her head. From what sounded like a couple miles away, Sunday church bells were tolling.
    â€œI used to go to church,” Pauline said. “I was Catholic for part of college.”
    â€œBecause of a guy?” Mal asked.
    â€œInitially.”
    â€œI was raised Church of Christ, until I wore out on it.”
    Pauline took a handful of nuts from the birdfeeder. She sat in her camping chair and sifted for cashews and almonds.
    â€œThe preacher’s son used to touch my knees under the table,” said Mal. “I wore a skirt usually but he never went higher than right here.” She dragged a fingertip high across her thigh, and then something over toward the swamp caught her attention.
    Pauline stretched up from her chair and saw a gawky bird stridingtoward them. The way his head lolled back and then stabbed ahead was vaguely threatening.
    â€œYou won’t fit on this porch, buddy,” Mal said. “You gotta get your own lunch.”
    The bird stood still then, like it was waiting for Mal to say more. A breeze kicked up, thick with the scent of reptiles and blossoms. Mal’s stomach growled and the bird laboriously took flight, beating the air, scraping the weeds with its belly.
    â€œYou and I need a cookout,” Pauline said. “I’m getting a grill. I think I might go get it right now.”
    â€œCan’t. I’m seeing this guy Tug later today. He’s named after a pitcher and that pitcher’s son is Tim McGraw, the country singer. He wears a bow tie.”
    â€œTim McGraw?”
    â€œNo, this guy Tug wears a bow tie. He came in the store while I was working and gave me a pin, only he called it something else.”
    â€œA brooch?”
    â€œBingo.” Mal straightened her arm and admired her nails, each of which bore a green dot. “A beetle brooch.”
    â€œThat’s what I want,” Pauline said. “A guy in a bow tie who gives me a charming gift. Maybe that was my guy and you intercepted him.”
    â€œYou don’t have a workplace,” Mal said. “You don’t have a place where you’re stuck, where you’re out on display.”
    â€œI guess that’s true. I guess there’s not much chance they’re going to randomly stop by my apartment.”
    Mal yawned, stretching her legs along the banister and reaching her arms up alongside the wind chimes.
    â€œWhere are you guys going on the date?” Pauline asked.
    â€œNo idea. That’s up to him. I ain’t paying for anything and I ain’t driving.”
    Pauline’s reflex was to tell Mal to be careful, to remind her that she didn’t know this guy at all, to advise her not to let him take her anywhere too secluded, but she kept her peace. Mal had made it this far. She wasn’t helpless. The girl knew how to do a lot of things Pauline didn’t know howto do, like change oil and sew up clothes when they got a rip. Maybe using men for pure fun was another thing she was skilled at. She didn’t need an amateur like Pauline nagging her.
    â€œHope he takes you somewhere nice,” Pauline said. She had nothing but peanuts left in her hand, and she stood and returned them to the feeder.
    Pauline woke up late and worked most of the next