–Unable to read his mind, she read the promise of virile vigor. Night whiskers, love patch between his breasts, and deep, measured breathing.
If she woke him, he’d change. They all did. Haunted eyes, attitudes of dread.
A ghost gal’s libido was a bitch.
His eyes cut to me, his lips curl. ‘Get lost.’
His refuge is the barbed-wire fence of his ferocity.
I force myself through the barbs of my own inattention and impatience. Every inch of me bleeds tears.
“I’m sorry I screwed up,” I say.
“Forget it, Mom.”