The Fun Parts

“Tovah, let’s be realistic. You’re not the high school baby-sitter. I don’t play bridge with your father. We’re grown up and broken, just like everybody else.

“Dezzy!” Tovah said, recognized the girl now. She sank to a knee, which was not only the proper way to address children but a nifty evasive maneuver vis-à-vis their crypto-creepy progenitors.

“Nothing happened,” Sean said. “I’ve had all sorts of adventures. Good times, bad times. You know I’ve had my share …” “Seriously,” Tovah said. She must have clawed out of the womb saying that. “Seriously, I wasn’t measuring myself against a prophecy of me.” “We were,” Tovah said.

Tovah treated him to the smile she once bestowed upon the creative writing professor who told her that some people were meant to write poetry and others, like Tovah, to treasure it.