I'm Afraid To Breathe In Case I

All Right. Let's Give You Something To Tell Your Grandkids About. Or Great-grandkids. Or Great-great-grandkids." I Snort With Glee, Delirious With Excitement. Charlie Winks And Pours Me Another Finger's Worth Of Whiskey. Then, On Second Thought, He Tips The Bottle Again. I Reach Out And Grab Its Neck. "better Not," I Say. "don't Want To Get Tipsy And Break A Hip.

I Cling To My Anger With Every Ounce Of Humanity Left In My Ruined Body, But It's No Use. It Slips Away, Like A Wave From Shore. I Am Pondering This Sad Fact When I Realize The Blackness Of Sleep Is Circling My Head. It's Been There Awhile, Biding It's Time And Growing Closer With Each Revolution. I Give Up On Rage, Which At This Point Has Become A Formality, And Make A Mental Note To Get Angry Again In The Morning. Then I Let Myself Drift, Because There's Really No Fighting It.

They Grew Fat And Happy--the Horses, Not The Children, Or Marlena For That Matter.

When You Are Five, You Know Your Age Down To The Month. Even In Your Twenties, You Know How Old You Are. I'm Twenty-three You Say, Or Maybe Twenty-seven. But Then In Your Thirties, Something Strange Starts To Happen. It Is A Mere Hiccup At First, An Instant Of Hesitation. How Old Are You? Oh, I'm--you Start Confidently, But Then You Stop. You Were Going To Say Thirty-three, But You Are Not. You're Thirty-five. And Then You're Bothered, Because You Wonder If This Is The Beginning Of The End. It Is, Of Course, But It's Decades Before You Admit It.

I Stare At Her For A Long Moment. I Want To Kiss Her. I Want To Kiss Her More Than I've Ever Wanted Anything In My Life.