The memory was bad. It had holes in it like an enameled colander. When I drained the spaghetti of my brain, all the precious pasta water poured off. Imagine that. “What are you doing?” “Making spaghetti.” “No sauce?” “Butter and cheese. But
She’d worn her hair in a bun for most of the courtship. She liked neck scarves, pretty things, pink, mauve, this sort of thing. She walked with a slight limp. The details accumulated as the morning dragged on. “Is your tooth fixed?”
The horn-shaped tube detected no whispering voices, nor could I project my voice to them, as far as I could see. “It’s a useless trifle.” “Must be worth some bucks.” “Maybe the room wasn’t dark enough.” “The room was plenty dark enough.”
I believed that by being careful and using a sharp pair of scissors I could save myself the cost. I’m poor enough to suffer these debates. One part of me, a would-be patrician, finds the idea abhorrent. The other part, an abject
So, I’m stuck in a picnic table. Mercifully, no one’s around to see me. Mom’s pulling into the parking lot in the scratched-up woody instead of the Beamer, so at least we won’t be making a new boyfriend mad because we’re late
The only person to cross Hildy’s porch was the mailman, and he didn’t even come every day. But someone was in her house right now rustling around. “Denny, that you?” she called, nightgown cooling against calves as she made her way down
