Since about 3:30, you’ve been trying–desperately and unknowingly, I’m sure–to make it into today’s slice.
From the texted picture of the burning field by the brewery to your smoldering smile while we stood off to the side of our daughter’s science fair display, you have tried.
Leaving the parking lot, I knew you’d cut me off at the pass and, again–at the light–I knew you’d run the burning yellow.
We raced home–you won, of course–and stood side-by-side, making a dinner that looked like it belonged in someone else’s kitchen. You described the look, the sizzle, the flavor as “the opposite of mistake.” Now it’s gone and you’re texting a customer, using language that can only come out of a motor head’s mouth.
Our daughter is upstairs on YouTube, and we are together in the quiet of the basement, a quiet broken only by the snarling sideshow that is our growing pups. You get up to join them, even as I keep writing. You straddle and shush the shepherd.
“Morgan, I love you.”
Everything you do is slice-worthy. And albeit desperate and unknowing, your attempts to get into today’s slice–every day’s slice for that matter–do not go unnoticed.
I am participating in the tenth annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. When leaving comments, I’d love to hear your feedback on craft more than content. Thank you in advance.