𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐏𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐩 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Tiger Rag

╭────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────╮

Sunday was hot. Hotter than hell's boots.

Phillip had been with the Collins - somewhat distanced - for the past week.

Every day, he would go into the woods with Winnie's father with a pocketful of cigarettes and a flask of tequila, and they'd come back in the evening with game, wild hog, deer, rabbit, fish, or any other wild animal they could get their hands on - though, much to their chagrin, Mrs. Collins refused to cook any and all of them. And every evening, as the sun continued its descent behind the hills to the East, Winnie brought an aluminum-tin full of food to Graves' doorstep.

On Sunday, however, there was none of that. Mr. Collins said it was too hot for Phillip to be staying in that 'sauna'  and suggested it would be a ripe enough day to have dinner as a collective, Graves included.

Mrs. Collins didn't think herself brave enough to break the news to Winnie, however, so at six - as they took up their seats at the table - Winnie found herself staring at a bare plate and a set of cutlery that had never been there before.

"Momma... are we havin' another guest?"

"Nope. Phillip's eatin' with us tonight." Mr. Collins cleared his throat. "He'll sit there."

Winnie glanced at her father, who was too busy scratching at a rust stain on his fork to notice her ample grievance. Mrs. Collins, however, caught her eye during her round of napkin-passing and surely spotted it.

"Stop  with those eyes, Winnie. Phillip Graves is a guest."

She huffed. "Sure. Phillip Graves hasn't once tried to be a guest. Every evening, I walk over to his cabin, and every evening, he slams open his door and grabs his dinner like it was a damn burden for him to even bend down--"

"--You keep those comments in your own head, little miss Collins." Mr. Collins grumbled. It was a terrible grumble, the sort of grumble only a father with waning patience could muster. "Pro'lly is a burden for him to bend down with that shoulder. That's why he's out with me most of the time... gets his mind off the wound, alright. Can't blame him for bein' anti-social."

"Can, and absolutely will  for as long as he's--"

"Phillip!" Mrs. Collins exclaimed joyously, wafting a ladle as if it were an Olympic baton. "How nice of ya to join us! Gosh, I didn't even hear ya come in! Take a seat, please, get comfy. It's grilled steak and potatoes on the menu tonight."

Winnie didn't dare look him in the eye. He didn't deserve it. Not after his treatment of her own mother, refusing her cooking until it was too late in the evening to eat it comfortably.

It was too easy to recall her mother's flustered state, scrounging like a rat in a pantry for cutlery and crockery - not forgetting the can of Cola  - only for Winnie to bring it to his doorstep as if she was his servant.

As if it wasn't thirty-two steps from his door to their front porch and another twelve to the kitchen.

Even after he sat, she paid him no mind. No attention. Only once did her eyes cross his path, in passing, and as soon as they did, they promised never to meet it again. 

"Hot outside, ain't it? Inside, too..." Mr. Collins licked sheepishly at a glass of Scotch. 

Winnie, wine.

Graves, beer.

"Sure is." Graves leant against the table.

Winnie felt the wood tilt beneath her elbows - she wrenched both arms into her lap, instead.