FORGOTTEN SONG

Early the next morning, she found Zeke out on the porch sweeping wet leaves. It was the day of his Open House. She put her arms around him and told him she wanted to go to Chicago with him. She felt incredibly happy. Then she went downstairs and took her guitar out of its case and began to sing, and, strangely, she found herself singing a song she’d written years ago and had, until then, lost all memory of.

PIZZA BREATH

He had told her he couldn’t take her to Chicago with him—he’d be too preoccupied and would have too much to do.

That evening he came knocking at her door just as she was shutting her book to go to bed. She wasn’t about to open the door, she was still so mad. All she wanted to do was sleep—to blot him out. But he went around the back of the house and tapped on her window…so finally, grudgingly, she let him in. As she crawled back into bed, he stretched himself out on top of the covers beside her.

“Something smells good,” he said.

“It must be my breath,” she said dryly. “Onions, garlic…I had leftover pizza for dinner.” She covered her mouth with the bedspread. He moistly kissed her nose. She covered her nose…he kissed her eyes. She covered her eyes…he kissed her forehead.

“I think I’ll stay under here,” she said. “It’s wet out there.”

Each time she tried to peek out, he tried to kiss her. And when he began to laugh, his stomach jiggling on top or hers made her laugh too.