I’m atrocious. But I’m trying, and here are three of the eight efforts I should have made by now, and ideally I’ll be all caught up within the week.
When we buried his gerbil, the sky was a dirty grey, like somebody’d put a tissue beneath a tea bag and let the tannins sink in.
“Call me Pa,” she says (it took me nearly three months to realize she even had the cant of her grin identical every time; so too the length of time she shakes their hands, and the little laugh when the name is repeated, syllable rolled over tongue and tasted careful—you could see, in the grin, how she pleased she was, how many times she’d had someone stumble up drunk to her and tell her, listen, Pa, that’s messed up, that’s not the type of name for a pretty girl like you—they use this logic often, like when Louie busts out the spirit gum, and we go to parties, and some He not eying Me tells her, Hey, why you wearing that? I bet you’d look a lot more beautiful without that mustache. I’ll bet, Mister).
It will be an accident–great gushing relief–because–perhaps gushing is the wrong word–you will have walked to the bathroom, taken your key, ensured you knew how to get back into the damnable office where you will spend the rest of your day(s) sitting staring at bright lights, and the red on the paper as you try to swipe yourself dry will take you by surprise.
Look at it for a moment.
Make a ‘hm’, perhaps.