After weeks of making eyes from the other side of Fiction, he plucked up the courage.
His scrawled note said, “Coffee?” Her reply said “Convince me.” She’d read the novels: true love needs a little jeopardy.
But he missed her punctuating smile. He snatched up his satchel and marched away.
Grandpa holds my hand. He taps his cane. His hearing aid emits a horrible hum. His dead eye looks like a winter moon, his right eye, which works well enough for him to manage, glints like crumpled tinfoil in direct sunlight. Whenever he bangs into furniture he spits out sparks.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
Only dish-washing was available but he needed the summer job. He wanted to meet her.
So what if she was on exchange too? Or that she might think him a nobody?
A lifetime together was worth that summer of dishes, even if she wanted him to always be their dishwasher.
He looked at me, eyes rain-readied, heavy and distant.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered quietly.
“All these years, I’ve been telling myself ‘tomorrow’.
“But then there’s another tomorrow. Followed by another.
“And then a tomorrow follows that.”
He blinked and the rain began. Slow and silent.
‘Until there’s no tomorrow. It’s over.”
Sometimes I feel like you’re watching over me from wherever you are.
Sometimes I believe you love me still.
Sometimes the sun reminds me of your sweet caress,
And the moon of your deep, enduring passion.
Sometimes I realize it’s all an illusion and you are
Truly,
Completely,
Irrevocably,
Gone
This odd can of fungus in water was my mother’s choice, strangely symbolic of my life growing up. She could take any good thing, any proud moment, and tear it into pieces, leaving fragments of a once happy child.
I was 14 before I knew mushrooms could be bought fresh.
He carried me over the threshold. That, in itself, was not an easy task.
I should have loved him for that alone, but I always wanted more.
“You missed a spot.” I twirled the just-washed glass around in the sunlight.
He reached to take it, but I smiled. “Let me.”
Burgers and beer aren’t romantic, unless free-range and craft. The perfect test: casual pretense, maudlin subtext.
They caught each other blowing away their beer-burger burps discreetly. Infatuation.
They cut off each’s “Before this goes further, you should know” speeches with “I already know, and I feel just the same.” Love.
boomer trujillo is a TexMex son, parent to an anxious dog, and a perpetual student. He’s grateful for readers.
Soft red hair, pink cheeks, and tiny fingers. From the moment I saw her, I was in love.
Home from the hospital. She’s all mine.
Mr. Wonder crooned Isn’t She Lovely? on the radio.
Admiring her and sobbing softly; the true weight of motherhood hit.
She is lovely, and terrifying.
He knew, often before she did, what was needed. His casual remark midweek, her nodded assent. Saturday morning: lunches packed, headed toward the rising sun and the smell of salt.
Now, when she stands alone by the edge of the sea, she thanks him even though he is not there.