Don't Come Back

"Don't come back," she had said, yet here I was, drawn like a moth to a flame. Through the latched screen door I took in the TV flickering in the den, onions frying, a murmur of conversation. The dog, Rufus, came and sniffed at me but he didn't bark. "Who is it?" She came forward, drying her hands and squinting in the porch light. Dropping my duffle bag threw me off balance -- I'm not quite used to the prosthesis yet -- and I put my hand against the screen to steady myself. "Oh, Lord," she said, meeting my palm with hers.