On Sundays Maggie and I never left my apartment. Sundays were for lying around, cooking Eggo waffles and bacon in our underwear, watching infomercials, having sex in the shower, and making promises we may not have made at any other time. This was our ritual, and we followed it the way other people went to church or brunch every week. We were lying on the couch watching a woman on TV cut her son’s hair with a vacuum cleaner. The light from outside was filtering in through my curtains, and tiny particles of dust fell through the shafts of sunlight like snow. Maggie was running her fingernails up and down the inside of my forearm when she said, “Would you hire Luke?”
Luke was Maggie’s brother and had his own problems, and so even in that relaxed state, without any hesitation, I said, “Luke is trouble.”
