I’m a little nervous about

I’m a little nervous about introducing them. Who know if they will say something inappropriate? They are conservatives, after all. They may not “get it.”

On the other hand, I’m more than a little nervous about the people he meets in his everyday life. They might do more to harm him than merely make unenlightened statements.

I’m just nervous, period.

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Hurry

It took everything I had to be patient with her, not to hurry her along. It wouldn’t have done much good to urge her to keep up, because she couldn’t have done it. So I reset my eager, impatient brain. I went at her pace. We chatted along the way, and we got where we were going. What was my hurry, anyway?

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A Bumpy Night

“Fasten your seat belts. It’s going to be a bumpy night.” He grinned at me and started up the stairs with a flourish of his hips.

I couldn’t remember the correct comeback. I wasn’t in the mood to play his games anyway. I hurried to the kitchen and grabbed the good bottle of Scotch – the one hidden way in the back of the cabinet. I plunked it on the table, grabbed a glass, and sat down to consider our options.

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Favorites

Keeping warm.

Oh, yes, she knew all his favorites. Favorite dinner. Favorite dessert. Favorite sweater. Favorite Netflix movie. Favorite brand of beer. Favorite spot for the coffee cup. She knew all those things and gave him all those things. It wasn’t enough. He still beat her.

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Bunch

I peered through a bunch of kids, mostly boys. They swooped by on skateboards, they sat on benches to talk, they glanced furtively at the adult invading their domain. I couldn’t see him. I looked in every direction.

A good-looking blond boy separated from the others. He ambled my way. “Can I help you?” he asked.

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Seat Belt

She fell heavily into the passenger seat. The car was boiling hot so she left the door open for a minute to cool things down. She hooked her seat belt and leaned out to close the door.

The seat belt grabbed her and she couldn’t reach the door. She turned to her daughter, who had picked her up at the emergency room. “Typical,” she said. She unhooked, then closed, then hooked. “Take me home,” she said.

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August

When I lived in Austin, I moved several times. Always in July or August. Hot and muggy and horrible for hauling heavy stuff from house to truck to house again. When I left there I settled into a house. I’ve been here 14 years now. Yet every August, I feel as if I should pack up and move. It’s the time of year to do the heat stroke boogie.

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The Road

The road came to a T. I stopped at the stop sign. The voice from my phone told me to turn east. I looked in every direction for a clue to help me figure out which way was east. Did the sun help? Could I see mountains in the distance? What about shadows? Would they help? Finally I turned right. When my phone started squawking, “Recalibrating,” I realized I hadn’t picked east at all.

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The Peaches

The peaches cling
Stubbornly
To their pits.

Their skins pocked
And picked
By birds and ants.

They fill a bowl
Higher
Higher,

Until the
Peachy goodness
Mounts to pie level.

Get the sugar
Make a crust
Bake it up.

Yum.

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I Forgot

I forgot the soothing sound of your voice. I forgot the soft curls in your hair. I forgot the smooth silk of your forearms. I forgot the little mole under your right earlobe. I forgot the exact color of your eyes when the sky is blue behind you. I forgot the bright crescent of your smile in the dark oval of your face. It’s easy to go on because I forgot everything about you.

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