While my 13-year-old chatted with a woman in an office today, I leaned back, yawning, thinking about another cup of coffee.
The woman’s low leather boots were worn at the heels. She was well-dressed with a silk blouse and gray slacks, in a professional position, and I assume lack of money was not the reason for her worn shoes. Love, likely. The boots probably fit her well, and she loved them.
How hard we can wear the things — and the people — we love most. Like this bowl, broken at the edge, that I keep filling. Fresh salsa — peppers, tomatoes, onions, salt.
There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are.