Triangle Offense / writing life

Once-over over with, she returns to head-nodding, as one glance, a snapshot becomes a digital film. Messy hair, wedding band and crossed arms. Sandwiched between two others, transforming the right one into a support beam. Though the passage could be seen as the reverse of freedom, civility is required. The fellow riders understand how fatigue drains those who can be thought to be sleepwalking through life.

Gone are days when paradise was a garage, before womanhood turned out to be a short, straight dotted line. From in front of a greasy pan whose heat sent smoke, way back to lessons where mother explained how to roll dough for a warm broth.

With two kids and a husband who hugs twice a day, not to cop a feel, but because the children are the result of emotions laid bare.

We cross a landscape, suspended hundreds of feet over water. Her head nods further to the right, the leg moves left, further widening the slit in the middle of a khaki skirt. By the way she hunches her shoulders, she manages to make knee-high leather tan boots reserved.

The rattling of steel wheels disrupts her nap. She checks her surroundings with quick peeks then resumes her dreamscape. As I prepare to get off, I am content to have learned why we kiss with our eyes closed.