I sat with my boy on the edge of the prairie, sunshine dwindling in the west. Passing a bottle of whiskey between us.
"You see," I said, "rules. Make sure she has the same color hair."
My son nodded, sipping, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"And stay away from strippers," I added gruffly, "waste of money."
"And the glitter gets fucking everywhere," he said, passing the bottle to me.
I regarded my son, who looked so much like me. I took another sip, scowling at the setting sun.
"Well," I muttered, "we outta be heading back."