We ate barbecue at a restaurant on the edge of the metropolitan area and then checked in to a Motel 6. My case was hopeless, she said, but she was a sucker for redheads—hence the daytime sex.

I was so into her: the way she wore glasses at a slight angle on her face; the dimple in the middle of her chin. She had peculiar eyes for a lawyer—quite squinty, like she was stoned all the time. But they cataloged everything. They were systematic in their appraisal of my body.
   
"There are holes in it," she said, looking me up and down. "Too many questions and loose ends. A judge is not going to buy it."
   
I kissed her nose, and went to get some Cokes from the vending machine.

On my way there, I passed a guy with his T-shirt stretched out holding ice.

"Hey," I said to him.

"Hey," he replied.
   
When I started slotting coins into the machine, there was a yelp and a thud. I turned to see the guy sprawled out on the gravel path, ice scattered all around him.

"I dropped the fucking ice!" he shouted to no one in particular. "I dropped the fucking ice!"
   
"You all right?" I said, jogging over to him.

He was a burly guy, mid-forties, wife-beater on, and flip-flops.
   
I suspect the flip-flops were to blame.

"I dropped the fucking ice," he said, quieter, attempting to roll himself off the ground.

I put my hand out to help, but he waved me away, and then kicked some of the ice when he was up. 

Back in the motel room, my lawyer was taking a shower. I sat on the toilet, untwisted the Coke bottle, and drank the carbonated liquid. I could barely see anything through the steam.

I kept on thinking about the ice guy.

"We need a fresh perspective," I said.
   
My legal representative toweled herself dry. She looked at me in the patch of mirror she'd wiped clear with her fingers.
   
She took a sip of Coke.

"I need to go," she said.
   
"A new angle. It's all about the angles—you said yourself."

She rubbed her forehead.
   
"Angles or not, my kids need picking up," she said, grabbing her keys.

I thought about the ice guy. I thought about how he'd rolled himself over and gotten up, brushing his knees off, plucking out a few gravelly bits from his flesh.

I felt a wave of indescribable joy; it reached up from a place inside me and shook me to the core.

I dropped the fucking ice.

Jonathan Cardew has stories in or coming from Passages North, SmokeLong Quarterly, Lost Balloon and others. Originally from the UK, he lives in Milwaukee.

Read his postcard.

Detail of photo on main page courtesy of Thierry Llansades.

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