It’s just the three of us. My boyfriend, his best friend, and me.
We are a threesome. I love Jim, I think. He’s handsome, athletic, and he treats me like a flower. 
But I really like John, Jim’s best friend and roommate. He’s a thinker, a philosopher, a Henry Thoreau look alike, only better looking. Continue reading
A year or so before my mom’s dementia took her mind away, she shocked me by stopping in front of my digital kitchen clock and proclaiming, “4:44 – that’s a great sign! Happiness, or good luck, or something like that.” Continue reading
I call him, sucking in my breath and biting my tongue so I won’t cry.
He hates emotion.
But he loves me. I know that. As long as I don’t cry. Continue reading
I’m a writer. And an author. A reluctantly published author. I’m disappointed with myself in that way. If I wasn’t reluctant to publish, I’d do it more. If I wasn’t reluctant to publish, I’d shout to the world that I love to write stores. If I wasn’t reluctant to publish, I’d share my stories far and wide. Continue reading
This is what I dislike about aging.
My days are shorter.
I don’t mean my life ahead is shorter, although of course it is. I try not to think about that, but now that you mention it, yikes, yes. Do I have 10 more years, possibly 15 more years before I’m totally decrepit? Continue reading
roughwighting 