Kristen Callihan

“If my eyes could show my soul, everyone would cry when they saw me smile.”

—Kurt Cobain

I am lonely as hell, and Delilah Baker feels like home

Macon moves farther into the kitchen. “I have fans who look at me the way you’re looking at that stove.”

I’m going, I’m going,” he says, still laughing as he spins around and starts wheeling away. He’s almost out of sight when he calls over his shoulder. “Missed you too, Tater Tot.”

Mmm . . . turmeric is an anti-inflammatory, which can help with pain.”

I’m trying to keep you safe. Promise me you’ll listen, Delilah.”

Come back,” he says as if hearing my inward yearnings. “I’ll let you wing another tomato at me.”

I don’t realize I’m swinging my crossed leg in agitation until the tips of Macon’s fingers touch my knee.

He goes in for a piece, and a fork duel ensues.

“Stop eating my food.”

“But yours is better.”

“I know. That’s why I ordered it.”

“Come on, Tot. Just one more bite.”

“No. Eat your damn salad. It’s good for you.”

“I hate salad. Fuck the salad.”

“You first, salad boy.”

Anything, babe.”

I kind of love him just then. Because I know, I know, he’s calling me babe to irritate Macon. It’s in his eyes and the way his mouth twists to hold back laughter.