Turf

The bedsheets smell like cut grass. She’ll need to bundle them into the washer before Marty gets back from the bar but, bless him, they have plenty of time. Cohle doesn’t smoke in bed but he looks like he might want to. His eyes are big dark pools, either thoughtful or doleful, and Maggie shifts her bare leg over him to see how his long grave face flickers with something like appreciation at the touch. She’s still wearing that laundry-day sweatshirt, newly grass-stained, and the funny thing is, he’s still half-dressed. Must be by preference. They’ve had plenty of time.