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The Glass at the Window
The taxi was outside. Uncle Dennis had his hat in one hand and a wet glass in the other, because he would not leave a dirty glass in Ruth's sink. Ruth had wanted one photo of him all weekend. Every picture she already had showed the same stiff row of cousins at a table. She wanted him as he was when he forgot about the camera.
"Put the phone down," he said. "I look like a man who is late."
"You are late," Ruth said. "That's why I want it."
He shook his head and held the glass up to the window. He turned it until the afternoon light went through it and onto his fingers. He was looking for a smear, not for a picture. Water ran off the rim and onto his wrist.