Depression and Texas heat held me down hard one summer until I discovered a glittering mineral spring in the scrublands.
Over the crackling phone line, she asked, flat and ancient, “Are you a witch?”
She massaged my scalp and started talking immediately.
I hate the air mattress more than broccoli.
A human being. Yes. Must be. No more protection of the womb.
We burst out my front door like freed inmates, like the guys in Cuckoo’s Nest. We’re both a little fat to be running this much.
Mom shouts us awake. I slip out of bed, twisted and tangled, arms, legs, and sheets. Smoke.
an amazon photos notification starts me scrolling through photos of layla and me on waikiki beach.
I grab his shoulders as he bounds across the porch with his clunky duck walk.
We clutch hymnals, whisper hearsay, stretch clenched muscles, remember her in the recital, her yellow feathers fluttering as she shuffled in line with our daughters . . .
I approach the entrance of Steinway & Sons, hesitating before entering for the first time.
Standing at my office door Monday morning, sipping my first cup of coffee, I greet Mary, direct marketing director for Harvard Business School Press.
The side door opens with a rush of cold air. The dog, not party to previous conversations about college break, traffic, or logistics, leaps up.
On our bus trip back to Canada from Aunt Rose’s in Herkimer, New York, border agents asked us about any undeclared purchases.
8 p.m. I entered the circular fitness hall and found myself alone. Surprisingly deserted.
Scanned. X-rayed. Biopsied. Contemplated putting on my bra. Instead, picked up a leaflet.
He reaches across my face to accept a drink. His muscular, hairless arm is dangerously close to my lips.
My breasts pulsate and my nipples tingle. I’ve not eaten for days yet my waistband punishes me.
Heather returned my yearbook with an expression I can't recall. A friendly smile? A smirk?
Although in my eighties, I still consider myself one of the last of the cool dudes.