No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
“Please, stop,” she begged Mr. Turner. “You must realize what a story like this could do to me. It’s not like the other rumors you spread about me, like how I enjoy taunting our servants, or that I put my sewing needles in your shoes. Or worst of all,” she closed her eyes once more, “that I snuck worms into the pies I brought to the orphanage. I can’t show my face there ever again, and you know how much I loved serving there.”
If he had taken the #12 instead of the #114, he already would have been at the mall. Now here he was, on a broken-down bus, waiting for a replacement. And no way to contact Derek, if, in fact, that was the guy’s real name.
“What kind of idiot would send a real Joan Mitchell to us?” Matthew asked.
“Maybe it’s our lucky day?” Vanessa’s heart pattered with excitement. Maybe under my direction, we’re finally being taken seriously as an auction house?
For every man worth meeting, a thousand others come to the beach with masked emotions and wearing money on their faces.
The road map is also red, and it will cost me if I’m late for my presentation. With two boys in college, I’m counting on the promotion and raise. We need a larger apartment and a car worth more than the gas in its tank.
“I never did understand what you saw in that boy,” she began.