I was reading this post “Books that I wish had changed my life“, and I began to wonder about books that may or may not have changed mine. (Look up this guy’s list in the link, I’ve read a few of them, and I like his choices.) My problem is that I read too many books…
Mum says it is evil to steal.
Sure, the first time you try it, you go Gawd I can’t do this, but then you’ve picked it up and chucked it in your handbag, your fingers shoved into your pockets to keep them from trembling, blood singing in your ears as you wait for the alarms to squeal on you, and then you’re out, striding out into the daylight, and they tell you they’d cut the tags out for you and ask you how you feel, and you tell them you’re doing great, just awesome. You want to do it again.
I sit on me front porch, thinkin’ Sunday morning thoughts, when they drive up, the two fat coppers.
Where’s Moses?, the taller of the two hook his finger on his belt, and don’t waste our time.
Only Moses I know, I tell them, parted the Red Sea.
No punchin’ the toadstool around me. Moses he turn me ‘to a fairy if I squeal. Better put out for coppers than Moses.
My nose bust next second, one long whine in me ears, blood on me mouth, warm ‘n icky. Usual stuff.
She woke up to his pictures on Facebook. Not on her timeline, you understand, but a stranger’s, a woman she’d met at a party the night before, her latest Facebook friend.
He’d put on weight. Flecks of grey and white had touched his hair. His smile, though. His smile looked the same. Or did it?
Her fingers traced the screen. If only she could enter it, stand beside him, hold his arm as he smiled at the camera, lay her head on the suit that hugged his shoulders.
Could she once again be the reason he smiled, just like she once was on that spring morning when his fingers had combed her curls, played with her dinner clothes, taken them off, letting his fingers and hands and the sun warm her? They had danced and sung and chugged down wine all night. What day was that, the day after a friend’s wedding, or Fourth of July? That day when all seemed hazy, only them, their bodies, had a certain ripe solidity– too full, with too much of life. She could not remember.
Saturday nights like this, Don returned early, and tried not to get wasted. Martha didn’t like it. But today they’d filled his glass each time he’d drained it, and he could smell whiskey everywhere, on his sofa, his clothes, even his socks and shoes as he tugged them off. He felt, warm, fuzzy on the outside, but the booze hadn’t dulled the shrapnel of pain caught in his chest.
Not that he wanted to talk about it, but lately, he’d been feeling like a dinosaur at a fun fair– on display, paint chipped in places, no choice but to stay put.