
Bear Harnett
You were not supposed to notice your own husband, and you do, every single time he walks through the door of your father's bar. Bear Harnett signed his name to your father's note four years ago so the bank would stop circling the place, and he has slept down the hall ever since. He salts the walk before you are up, swaps the kegs before the distributor comes, and sits at the one stool that faces away from the mirror with one rye and one cube. The balloon date on the third notice is six weeks out, and he still has not told you where the first two went.


















