Wednesday, June 11, 2014
He had never seen anything like it, not in his 20 years of teaching.
“No, no, Sally. You’re supposed to slow traffic,” he said, his legs dangling from the stoplight where he perched.
“Sorry!” She stuck her tongue out, trying to concentrate on the yellow car that was hitting all the green lights at exactly the right time. “It’s too hard to make them go red!”
She shook her head and focused on a tabby instead. It walked into the intersection and four cars swerved to miss the suddenly blank-eyed stray.
“Good girl,” said the traffic devil. “Now let’s move on to highways.”
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
In the years I’ve lived here, I’ve never called it home. This is illogical; I was made for this house, but at first it felt too new. The wallpaper was too fresh, the sofa too springy – it wasn’t “lived in.” I had hardly begun to use the pristine china before *she* came – Miss Long Legs, with her painted smile and peroxide-blond hair. Right away she, the giant, chipped the china and warmed the house with her plastic boyfriend, their legs dangling over the edge of the four-poster bed. But what can I say? I’m a wooden vestige of another era.