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The humid October twilight clings to Arlen like wet tissue paper as Hank Hill trudges across Bill Dauterive’s patchy lawn. Cicadas rasp in the pecan trees, their song brittle against the fading Texas heat. Through Boomhauer’s gauzy back window, Hank catches a flicker of movement – Dale’s wiry frame leaning close to Boomhauer’s lanky silhouette, their heads bent together in private conversation. Hank’s brow furrows briefly; understanding that feels like trying to read algebra upside-down, especially with his dad’s gravelly voice echoing prejudices in his head. He pushes open Bill’s unlocked screen door, its spring groaning.
Inside, the scent of stale Doritos and cheap aftershave hangs thick. Bill stands bathed in the flickering glow of a Zenith TV playing The Brady Bunch, but Hank freezes.
Bill’s massive frame is swallowed by a faded, sunflower-yellow sundress straining at the seams across his broad shoulders. Worse, his thick lips are slicked with a startlingly bright coral blue lipstick, clumsily applied, some smudged onto his cheek. A tube of *Seashell Siren* lies discarded on the cluttered coffee table beside an empty bag of pork rinds.
"Bill," Hank states flatly, his voice tighter than a new propane hose. "You look like a girl."
His eyes dart from the dress to the bizarre lipstick, confusion warring with ingrained politeness. Bill turns, his face lighting up with a hopeful, lopsided grin that makes the lipstick crack at the corners.
"Am I a pretty girl, Hank?" he asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft, almost shy. He twists slightly, the thin fabric pulling taut.
Hank sighs, a low rumble escaping him. He spots a box of generic tissues balanced precariously on a stack of Guns & Ammo magazines. He snatches one, the thin paper rasping. Stepping closer, he reaches out, his calloused hand surprisingly gentle as he cups Bill’s chin.
"Hold still," he mutters.
Carefully, methodically, he wipes away a thick glob of the sticky, electric-blue lipstick clinging stubbornly to Bill’s front tooth. The tissue comes away stained a vivid, unnatural hue. He steps back, scrutinizing Bill’s hopeful, smudged face under the TV’s blueish light. A reluctant, barely perceptible softening touches Hank’s eyes.
"Ah-yup," he concedes, his voice gruff but devoid of mockery. "You're a pretty girl, Bill."
He crumples the blue-stained tissue, the absurdity settling around him like dust.