Spitball Army

We stood on the South Rim, watching a lightning storm miles to the north. As we clutched cocoa in our mittens, it began to snow.

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Leaping out of bed, she thinks: Today is the day that I read Kierkegaard. She brews some coffee and sits down to work a Sudoku.

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17…18..19,20! She opens her eyes. Down the hallway, her sister hangs breathlessly in the laundry chute, covered by a bathmat.

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“Subway people won’t look at you,” Dad said, first trip to Boston. As a challenge, he’d extend his lower lip and stare them down.

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His list read “Meeting with Harry,” though he didn’t think he knew a Harry. He checked the calendar to be sure it was still 2008.

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“I want a baby,” she said. “I’m sure I’ll want to give it back at some point. We’ll see how it goes.”

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He was friendly to excess – everywhere – greeting store clerks, passersby and unclothed men in the locker room with equal vigor.

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