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“I don’t think she will.”
Mere stories. All true as I remember them.
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“I don’t think she will.”

“I’m not sure how …,” the man in front of me mumbled.

“Do we really have to wait 30 minutes?” my brother Marc and I whined in unison.

Becky W.

“Can we have grilled cheese and tomato soup?” I asked, a hopeful smile glued to my face.

“So …,” I asked, “I’m wondering, would you like to schedule another appointment?”

“That’ll be one dollar and forty-five cents” the tall, older man said.

After tethering our canoe to the ‘nearest cleat, Tom and I walked across the wooden walkway bridging the gap between the dock and navy-grey store.

It’s not that we weren’t allowed.

“These are the last of the season,” she said, spooning all the plump, bright red raspberries into my bowl.