Halfway through the third piece of chocolate, my apartment bell rang.
Too late for a UPS delivery or for a friend to stop by.
Definitely too late for Bob (see last week’s The Wrong One...).
I hit my pink-manicured finger on the speaker and asked, “Yes?” Only it sounded more like, “Yethhh?” since I was swallowing the last bit of dark chocolate caramel.
“Sloan?” a male voice inquired. “Ms. Molly Sloan?”
I had a bad feeling about this, but I couldn’t deny the inevitable. Continue reading
I was exhausted, angry at Bob for not picking me up at the airport, and regretful of the argument I’d had with my parents as I left their Florida condo to return to Boston.
It was 10 p.m. when the taxi stopped in front of my brownstone on Commonwealth Ave. The driver pulled out my suitcase and waited for his fare. He’d not spoken a word the short trip from Logan to my place, and now he just held out his hand for the $20 I placed there. With no thanks for the $5 tip, he got back in his yellow cab and sped off. Continue reading
Thursday night is pizza night. I begin to salivate when I call ahead and order our margherita pizza. With roasted red peppers. And spinach.
As my guy and I prepare to pick up the almost-ready pizza pie, his voice hitches up a notch as he admits, “I can’t find my wallet.” Continue reading
One of my most enthusiastic readers.
We writers aren’t allowed to be introverts anymore.
Back in the day, a writer was a man most times (women were home frying the bacon and changing the diapers) with thick dark hair that he pulled with one hand as he wrote down his words furiously on paper with his special pen.
Then that man walked dejectedly to the local pub or bar and drank away his creative problems. Somehow, he produced a masterpiece with a good editor, and then his publisher made sure the book sold tens of thousands of that hard-earned tome.
Those were the good ole days.
Now men and women write on fast-paced computers, editing with a keystroke, and banging their heads against the monitor between washing the sheets and emptying the dishwasher. Continue reading
It’s 8 a.m. Mother’s Day morning and the doorbell rings.
Could it be? He didn’t forget, after all?
I check out my appearance in the mirror: make-up free face, frizzy hair, leggings and sweatshirt adorn my body. That poor delivery person.
Nonetheless, I open the front door with bright eyes that grow wider as I see what’s standing in front of me. A young blond-haired man holding a tall glass vase filled with at least a dozen delicate long-stemmed pink roses.
I sigh with relief and relieve the man of his burden. “Thank you so much,” I gush, as if the gift is from him. But he smiles, pleased, as I withhold the question I want to ask: Who sent them? Continue reading