I say nothing to Derrick while taking him home. He doesn't seem to notice. He is talking about why and how truck drivers are more prone to kidney stones than the rest of us. I'm not sure why he is talking about this either. "Here?" I have to keep asking — for the correct turns and streets that will get him home. His house is dark when I pull up, except for the doorbell, which is an illuminated little yellow circle. I help him to the door. He'll pick up his van tomorrow he says. He smiles, and nods a big thanks, and then I leave.

At home I write off the day with two more drinks. I grow sleepy on the couch with the television. The house on Lake Drive comes back to me, and very quickly I am wide awake. I picture a bassinette over looking a panorama of water; deep blue Lake Michigan water. Ice cold water, while my baby naps in a tall, warm safe house, with awnings and balconies. I picture everything covered in ivy.

People look and see right through me as if I were transparent. I'm the x-ray where you can see that house key in the stomach, pennies in the belly, or that carpenter nail that nearly nicked the brain. I'm filled and exposed with everything that I take in. Everything shows through me. All the bitter pills, disapproval, weakness, pain, jealousy, spite. There is no poker face to mask this — I run without that luxury, and most people, sooner or later, loathe me for it.

Oh, the police did finally call, after I had dropped off Derrick, said they caught two young men mugging another walker in the nature preserve. I asked if they were fat. The cop paused, as if viewing the suspects through some glass or a two-way mirror. "Yeah, yeah they're fat," he said.

I can tell you what'll happen now. I'll wake up tomorrow and call Alice. I'll ask to meet with her, for coffee, to talk about her anger and her rash decision. I'll explain to her that she is giving up her baby, the one she wanted a long time ago, just because the piece doesn't fit the puzzle right now.

But she won't agree to meet me. "There's nothing you can say," she'll cry, and add her famous one-liner, "Some things we will never improve John."

I'll stop at her sister's house to see her anyway, so she can see through me. See all of my pain, but also my determination to turn it all around for this dear baby. She'll see that strength through my jacket and sweater and t-shirt; straight into my chest. She won't see worry, it won't be there.

James Blessington grew up in the middle class suburbs of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Raised in the nineteen eighties in a household of strong Labor Union influence; a home which also happened to be furnished with fire-engine red shag carpeting and fake wood paneling.

As a young boy he picketed scab meat cutters, and supported striking machinists and hell bent brewery workers. His days of protest ended when muscle cars and rock music became much more interesting. After a brief stint as a bad singer in an unknown rock and roll band, he cut his hair, showered off the early nineties, and began writing his first novel, In Between Days.

He was also a shipping clerk for one of those big Milwaukee Breweries, a printing press operator, and a tech school instructor for one night.

With the first novel complete, he now spends his time seeking a publisher, finishing a book of short stories, and paying the bills as a Six Sigma Black Belt.

James has been published in the online literary magazine, Arbutus. He is married to a Montana girl, Heather, and is a young father to a daughter Gracie, and a son Sidney James.