Where You Headed?

I regret ever letting him advance from roommate to lover. Now he thinks he owns me. I can’t even leave the apartment without him asking me where I’m headed. The lease is up in two months. He’s going to be gone after that. I’m finished with him and his clingy ways.

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Bump

Her two actors stood by a stone wall. She explained the shot.

“I need three shots. From the distance, mid-distance and close up. When we’re doing the distant shot, you’ll need to look like you’re wanting to bump parts. Get close, hang on tight, tilt your pelvises, be passionate.”

The actors nodded their understanding. They would make it look good.

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Tiny

It was a tiny thing to represent so much. Small as a fingernail, what design it held worn to near invisibility. Inside a miniscule image of my grandmother. The locket was the only keepsake I had of my mother. She’d had it around her neck when her body was found moldering in a garage – a homeless woman with nothing but a bag of rags to her name, except this gold locket around her neck.

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Elections

Oh, my goodness, isn’t this the worst election ever? And we have months more to go. Wild statements, hating, bickering, no middle ground where sensible people can talk about what is good for the country as a whole. I knew who I was going to vote for months ago. Now I’m boycotting the news until it’s over. Polarized politics be damned!

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Secrets

Secrets and shame are so toxic yet so universal. If there were no secrets, half of the worlds stories would have nothing to tell. We live with our secrets, or try to, but they stay there – nagging – no matter how we try to ignore them.

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My Dream

My dream was always about writing. I wrote, even when I was in a place in life where I couldn’t say, “I’m a writer.” Now I say that with ease, even though my main career has always been that of educator. But even an educator can write. Even a web designer can write. Even a blogger can write!

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Dream Job

In my dream job there would be no men sitting around talking about what they did at the strip club during lunch. I could wear comfortable shoes every day. I would make enough to support myself without running out of food and gas money every month. That would be perfect.

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Dream Home

“Ah, my dream home. Well, for starters it would be self cleaning.” She smiled at the realtor, who was laughing at her statement.

“Okay, how about easy to clean?” she amended. “That means smallish, no stairs, no carpeting.”

She pointed to a house on the realtor’s iPad. “That house, for example, has a big yard. I don’t want any yard. No outside maintenance at all.”

“How about a condo?” the realtor asked.

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Dream Vacation

Every winter I dig out the wool sweater I bought on my dream vacation to New Zealand for my 60th birthday. That was a few years ago, but the sweater takes me right back. It’s soft with blue designs and little happy sheep around the bottom. Funny how a sweater can make you think of birch forests and penguins and whales and ferries and Maori museums.

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Footstool

I hated that damn footstool. It was always in the way. My wife wouldn’t let me put my feet on it because her grandmother cross stitched the cover and she didn’t want it used. It filled up floor space for no purpose. Actually, now that I think about it, my wife does almost the same thing. I should get rid of both of them.

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