Free April & Oliver by Tess Callahan

to see where one begins and the other ends. “I don’t know why you hold
     on to that,” April says. “Whoever took it used the wrong shutter speed. And it’s overexposed.”
    Nana moistens her sleeve with her tongue and rubs a fingerprint from the glass. “I took it,” she says. “And it’s perfect.”
    When April leaves, the boys are gone, the basketball silent in the driveway. An Eldorado has boxed her in, and she leans on
     the horn until someone comes out to move it. She is impatient, afraid that Oliver will show up, concerned by Nana’s message.
     He would want to talk, and April has nothing to say.
    Once the Eldorado has moved, she backs up, tapping the car behind her, which she recognizes in her rearview as an Audi. Not
     Oliver’s. She pulls out abruptly, then slams on the brakes, nearly hitting an oncoming car. She didn’t look. The nose of her
     car juts into the street unscathed. She catches her breath and blushes as if Oliver were watching.

Chapter

6
    A PRIL TIES HER APRON, glancing at the handful of customers sitting beneath stuffed mallards and mounted buffleheads, glass-eyed and dusty. The Duck
     Inn is quiet.
    The daytime bartender looks at his watch; she is an hour early.
    “Consider it a peace offering,” she says, “for all the times I’m late.”
    He shrugs and takes off his apron. No one offers condolences because no one knows. This is one place Buddy rarely came, and
     where April isn’t expecting to see him every time she lifts her head. She leaves a note for the boss that she’s available
     for overtime. She wishes she could sleep here at night.
    Nevertheless, things remind her. A conversation develops about car accidents, vehicle safety records, the pros and cons of
     anti-lock brakes. There’s a man with a Giants shirt just like Buddy’s. And laughter from across the room that could almost
     be his.
    While mixing a screwdriver, she spots herself in the mirror, April the bartender. Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore how she
     got here. She’s been doing this job so long, it feels like who she is. The heavy sky makes the room darker than usual, the
     varnished wood without its usual gloss. She tells herself, for sanity’s sake, not to think anymore about Buddy. Sleep deprivation
     gives her a queer buzz. Her mind keeps slipping into odd, disjointed memories.
    She sees herself as a child walking to the bar with her father, hand in hand, April taking giant steps in an effort to match
     his stride. When they reached the tavern, her father would prop her on top of the bar.
    “Check out that smile,” he said once to a chinless man on a bar stool. “Is she going to be a knockout, or what?”
    “Drop-dead gorgeous,” the man answered.
    From that height, April could see a tank of tropical fish behind the bar. There were angels, guppies, mollies, and swordtails,
     all bobbing to the vibration of the filter. A picture was taped to the back of the tank. At first April thought it was a landscape.
     Then she recognized the hills as hips, the river a seam between a woman’s thighs. Her nipples were pink as pieces of coral,
     her hair lemon blond. The walls of the tank were stained with algae. An angel drifted, fins folded, kissing the surface for
     air. April wondered if fish could drown.
    Her father fixed her a Shirley Temple with an extra-plump cherry and left her sitting in a booth with her multiplication tables
     and gumdrops while he checked inventory. The chinless man came over and slid in beside her. His face was flushed and leathery,
     breath sweet as licorice. His eyes were glassy and sentimental, like her dad’s at the end of the day, and his sweat smelled
     familiar. He was taller than her father, older, with greasy hair combed back to keep it in place.
    “Promise me you’ll never cut your hair,” he said, handling her ponytail. His fingers were swollen and creased with dirt.
    April’s father appeared and leaned on the table. “Yo,” he said. “Sit any closer and