Exile on Kalamazoo Street by Michael Loyd Gray

Mattboy.”
    He nodded, appeared confused again. I was betting Matt was getting real tired of being thumped on his forehead. Clearly she wore the pants.
    â€œHe’s in outlaw mode,” Elsa said to me as though Matt was not there.
    I walked with them down the stairs to the side door and held it open as they filed out to the driveway.
    â€œThanks for stopping by,” I said. “Good luck with that outlaw thing, Matt.”
    â€œKeep listening to Tom Petty,” Matt said, saluting and then drifting slowly down the driveway to their car. He had already shifted mentally to wherever and whatever their next stop was.
    â€œKeep after posterity, Matt,” I said, and he turned and grinned. Matt was clearly an ass man. An ass outlaw.
    Elsa offered a hand and the lingering handshake revealed the soft warmth of her hands. Pink hands. Small hands. I tried not to think about fucking her and couldn’t quite manage it. Then I had to try not to think about Matt fucking her. I wasn’t successful.
    â€œKeep writing, Elsa,” I said. “It all starts somewhere.”
    â€œI know,” she said, “but where does it end?”
    â€œThat would be a good story to tell, I suspect.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll try.”
    â€œYou should,” I said.
    â€œWhat about you,” she said. “What stops you?”
    â€œInertia, maybe. Gravity.” I shrugged, tried to smile gamely. “Who knows? Some days I think I might sit down and never get up again. Maybe melt into the sofa.”
    â€œYou won’t do that,” she said.
    â€œYou can’t be sure, Elsa. I can’t be sure.”
    â€œI’m confident you won’t.”
    â€œYou have the confidence of youth.”
    â€œBut you have the confidence of experience, right?” she said. A breeze swept her hair across her face and she pulled it back and smiled.
    â€œYou should write something, Professor. You were good.”
    I frowned slightly. “Maybe I will. You never know. And just call me Bryce the next time.”
    â€œThere’s always a next time. Do you believe that … Bryce?”
    â€œI will if you will.”
    â€œThen I’ll believe it,” Elsa said. “For sure.”
    She turned and walked a few steps, then halted and looked over her shoulder at me, not quite smiling but not quite frowning, either. I watched her all the way to her car, noting that Matt was right about posterity—she certainly had a good one.

Chapter 5: Whiskey River
    O ne day I looked for Black Kitty and found him sniffing curiously at the side door. I looked out the little window, but did not see anything or anyone, and so I opened the door and stuck my head out—careful not to violate the prime directive and set a foot outside. As I pulled my head back and began to shut the door, I saw an envelope sitting in the mailbox. Retrieving it, I saw that it had no stamp and no writing at all, and anyway it was too early for the chirpy-voiced mail carrier to show up to drop mail and critique the state of my driveway, which looked okay to me, with just the thinnest of white coatings. I did notice that there were tracks in the snow leading to my door and back out to the street, which had been cleared, and there the tracks ended and the envelope mystery began.
    The sealed envelope became a test of will of sorts and remained on the coffee table for days. Each day I challenged myself not to open it, not to learn what mystery might be behind it, who might be behind it, what its purpose might be, whether there was mystery at all. I felt very satisfied every day that I managed to avoid opening it, and sometimes I congratulated myself for not even glancing at it. Once, Black Kitty knocked it on to the floor and I did not notice for hours. When I did pick it up, I tossed it back onto the coffee table without giving much thought to the fact that it was an unopened letter. I felt sure the envelope was not a bill, or from