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at the corners of her eyes. Almost
forty, still beautiful. And single again.
WE GET TO THE HOUSE
A little before noon. Cars line up along
the driveway single file, like half of Noah’s
beasts—Dad’s mostly restored Willys Wagon,
my Nissan (parked crooked, thanks so much, Nik),
Jake and Misty’s dirt-crusted blue Subaru,
Nikki’s mom’s showroom-clean Audi Quattro.
Her dad’s car—an amazing ’09 Z06 Corvette—
is conspicuously absent, but I wouldn’t expect
him to show this early, considering dinner
isn’t supposed to be served until late afternoon.
He’s probably six inches deep in his boss right now.
Poor Nikki’s mom. Guys are dogs. Woof, woof.
THIS DOG STARTS SALIVATING
As soon as the front door opens.
If
the chiduckey tastes even half
as good as it already smells,
Nikki is going to get an extra,
extra special thank-you tonight.
Maybe that cooking show paid
off after all. Dad and Jake are
in the living room, watching Big
Ten football and slurping brew.
I poke my head through
the archway, feign interest. “Hey,
honey, I’m home. What’s the score?”
Jake stands, offers his right
