Joyland: Take 1 I'm wearing ultra low-rider camo pants
that barely cover my crack and if she looks she’ll see the strap of my thong.
This filmy, beige crop top where, if I get a chill, my nipples will be my
most outstanding feature. My hair looks sexy hanging in my eyes. My walk is
killer. She can’t not
notice me. I enter her field of vision, she does a slow double take, then
stops mid-sentence talking with her clique, the LBDs,
mid-sentence. Her eyes scrape me, skim me. Scratch and burn me. I feel her
drink me in and salivate. I don’t look. Not yet, not yet. My eyes shift
slightly. ZAP. ZING. She’s hooked. I smile her in. She’s mine. Joyland: Take 2 Same sexy me. She detaches from the LesBo
Dykes, or Les Beau Dykes, and follows me to the parking lot. She gets in her
car; stays close to mine, runs a yellow light. She tracks me to the bank of
the river, to the edge of “Hi. I’m Johanna.” She kisses me long and hard; awakens the ache of longing inside
me. Her lips are metal, then melon. Finally, finally she lets me go. I gasp
for breath and she smiles, a one-sided, sliver moon smile, and says, “Now
that we have the introductions out of the way…” “Johanna, dear?” I jerk to the present. “Mrs. Arcaro has passed,” Jeannette says. I missed it, the last breath of her life. A pang of guilt for
daydreaming at this critical time stabs at my heart, but I chase it away. I
give Mrs. Arcaro’s frail hand a gentle squeeze and lay
it on the sheet. I feel Mom smiling down on me from heaven. As I’m leaving Memorial Hospice, I feel uplifted. I meant
something to someone. Even if Mrs. Arcaro was a stranger, I’m the one who was
there for her at the end. I’m the one who stayed. |
Privacy Statement
In compliance with the Children's Online Privacy Protection Act (COPPA)
no personal information on visitors is collected or shared.
Web site Copyright © 2000-2010 by Julie Anne
Peters
All Rights Reserved