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(Want—really want—him to think
about me in a sexual way? Weird.)
Hope he does, mostly
because putting me
and sex in the same
thought means he’s
got me, Autumn Rose
Shepherd, on his mind.
(Means he’s got me on his
mind in any way at all.)
I WISH I WAS SPENDING
Thanksgiving with Bryce. Just the two
of us, plus cornbread-stuffed turkey,
taters, gravy, cranberries, pumpkin
pie. Skip the green bean casserole.
Aunt Cora loves that stuff. Claims
it’s her specialty. Special? Uh …
Anyway, it’s my fantasy, so
excise the French cuts, smothered
in mushroom soup. Start with
Bryce and me nibbling each other
for appetizers while the bird
roasts and the pies cool
on the counter, perfuming
the kitchen with cinnamon and
nutmeg. Bryce leans me back
over the Formica … scratch that.
Fantasy, remember? Leans me
back over the shiny black granite,
kisses me. And not in a nice way.
