The Hanging Words

Words Like Knives

The months of December and January are always the busiest times for Corner House. My impeccable detective instincts tell me that it all has to do with the New Year. Writers who swear up and down they'll get something published in their New Year's resolutions send flocks of submissions during January, with the hope of achieving their goals early. On the other hand, the writers who realize they've reached the end of the previous year without sending anything in for publication swarm to submit in December—saturating our inboxes with half-developed stories and first-draft shitstorms. Which is a long-winded way of saying that I don't get very long to bask in the effervescence of my date before being plunged head first into stress season.

Luckily—or maybe not so luckily, depending on your point of view—Milo's schedule also becomes increasingly busy, which is unusual for the start of winter but not unheard of, he says. This is the absolute last chance people have if they want to move in before the holidays. The lucky part is that I don't feel like I'm the only one keeping our souls from intertwining.

Even so, he makes a point to call me Wednesday evening, and I spend damn near the entire conversation grinning like a fucking dolt. I can't stop thinking about his lips—about how they seemed to fit perfectly on mine. The feel of his hands over my cold fingers. God, I'm becoming a sap and I don't think I even mind.

Our conversation only ends when I see headlights on my driveway. Confused, I run to the front window. The car shuts off, plunging me back into the dimness of my incandescent bulbs. For a moment, I'm elated—thinking Milo's made a surprise visit. But despite the darkness, there's no mistaking the shadow making her way up the path. My serotonin levels take a steep dive.

"Everything alright?" Milo says in my ear, confused by my sudden silence.

"Yeah," I say. "Well, that's yet to be determined. I need to go."

"You sure?"

"It's just my aunt, I'll be fine."

He says goodnight, and reluctantly I hang up just as the doorbell rings.

"Hi," she says when I answer, drawing out the syllable for at least four seconds too long.

"Auntie, what a surprise."

I notice the large paper bag gripped in one hand. Without another word, she steps into the house and glides past me, swinging her purse back so she can slide off her shoes.

"I thought you might be lonely," she says. "You're always here by yourself."

"You didn't have to come over just to see me. I'm alright."

"It's okay, it's okay," she says, before turning to give me a tight hug. "It's no bother. Besides, you shouldn't be alone. It's not healthy."

I laugh a little. "Really, I'm fine. It's not like I'm isolated. I go to work every day."

"I'm going to cook dinner."

I thought that might be her plan, judging from the paper bag. Aunt Evora makes for the kitchen, dropping her Louis Vuitton purse on the coffee table as she passes it. My immediate reaction is to roll my eyes, though I'm not entirely unhappy. She's an excellent cook—I just wish I'd been forewarned about the visit. What if I wasn't home? What if I'd had someone over? Milo, for instance.

You might if you had the balls.

In the kitchen, my aunt has already put my largest pot on the stove and pulled out containers of sliced beef and vegetables.

"So, who was that on the phone?" she asks while she starts cooking.

My face flushes as I clear my throat.