Sublime

My eyes keep cutting back to her—that damn braid over her shoulder and a peek of ink at the collar of her sweater. I’m looking at her more than I should. I know I am. But I want to know what makes her laugh. I want to catch all of those reluctant smiles, right as they bloom across her face. Pink on her cheeks and that scrunch in her nose.

fug

But now, years later, I’m still here, doing the bee skits. It’s Funnyman’s longest-recurring gag. And I find myself wondering: But will I ever celebrate my sixtieth wedding anniversary like my grandparents? Will I ever be young and beautiful and pregnant by the sea? I will not, I will not, I will not. Many futures are possible but these particular

“Maybe you’re turning into an adult,” April suggested. “Me?” Jacaranda cried. Surely there was something one could do besides becoming an adult just because she didn’t want to live in West Hollywood or stand in a crush of eighteen thousand people at the Forum, listening to a white boy making all that money singing “Love in Vain.”