Josie by Court Merrigan

Josie stood on one leg at the foamy kitchen sink at three in the afternoon in a sheer negligee and the ranch hand with doffed hat got a quick-like grip on why she called him to the house while I am coming back from town in the light-edged shadows of the sun lacquered red and dipping low between the peaks thinking of you, my wife, who innocently and accidentally seduced me in like fashion when we were younger and on the winding asphalt through Holyoke Gap past the stands of scrub pine to the house I think on the old days and miss you though I’ve only been in town nine hours so I scamper up the steps of the ranch house as best I’m able since the accident and the ensuing leg braces and in the living room that ranch hand is transfixed at the damn TV and you are at the kitchen table with one of them photo albums and for just a second I catch the scent of how you were back when we were younger back when it was only us here and the whole bedamned world was somewhere else, but you are in a frumpy kimono which means you haven’t been outside yet today not even to see the mare you used to be so fond of riding out with me and you look down your nose at me tolerating-like and so I go upstairs to get on work clothes because judging from that ranch hand at the TV there’s plenty of work hasn’t been done yet today while Josie cinches her kimono feeling the warm squishing inside her and she does not know what she wants, only that she doesn’t have it yet.

Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Short Story | Tags: | Leave a comment

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