How We Left.

Cookie dough is a pain the ass, he thought, swirling the spoon around in the bowl some more. He couldn't complain. This was what lazy afternoons were made for. Baking with the babies. Who gave two shits about Diabetes?

DAAAAAAAAAAADDYYYYYYYYYYY. SOMEONE AT THE DOOOOOOR FOR YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU.

Sunday visitors was the sound his eyes made as they rolled far into his head. The bowl sat on the bar, giving company to his Scotch. He made his way to the door.

17 years. This face was a memory older than his daughters.

"Hi."

Hello.

"It's good to see you."

Yes. Yes, it is.

"Guess I should be going now."

Guess you should.

"...You haven't changed."

Only to you.

"That's enough for me."

That's fair enough.

She turned and walked. He turned and downed his Scotch, as their voices stormed in his ears, begging to know who she was, and singing of how pretty, and if she would come back for cookies.

How do I say who she is, when I still don't know her name...