A Quiet Sunday
You let yourself think it—that pesky thought that maybe you’d like to date someone again.
Two days later, you’re smooching someone on the back steps of your friend’s house, a party raging on the other side of the front door.
Next thing you know, you’re standing in Aisle 6 of Ingles Grocery planning meals for two.
This. Is. Ridiculous.
On the way home, you crest the hill outside of Bakersville and see a field of freshly cut hay. The sunset is mango-orange, not a single cloud to compete. It’s almost enough to make you crack right open and cry.
Pulling up your driveway, you find that in the time it took to buy groceries, two trees have fallen across your road.
You drive under the first tree very slowly, lifting it up by reaching out your driver’s side window as you pass beneath it. It’s only about as wide as your calf muscle.
The next tree requires a saw, and this you have in the back of your truck and so you deal with it on the spot, huffing it into the woods with a triumphant shove when all is said and done.
You get back into the truck and the groceries for two are sitting in the passenger seat staring at you. You want them to say something: Good job! You’re a badass! Nice work! Let me rub your feet!