She put her arm around me, and because this is fiction she also hugged me and kissed my cheek. Then she said, “Oh, my favorite daughter, any time I am with you the quality of my life is so fine. I am filled with love for everyone.”
I
looked up and noticed that the branch from which I had plucked this possibility
actually looked a bit diseased. A
little twisted. So perhaps the fruit from this branch was not really a
possibility but a shriveled fantasy.
Nevertheless,
it was pleasant sitting there with her, our picnic basket filled with fruit and
salami and cheese and bread. On the other chair sat our cooler with cold white
wine. Since dad was not there, she could have a glass of wine without worrying
that he would drink most of the bottle.
Wine
in the middle of the day always makes both of sleepy, so we feel asleep in the
middle of her explaining her recent painting.
When
I awoke she was gone so I got busy writing my new book. Now that I am fluent in
French I discovered that I think about things differently. Jokes are different
because the adjective goes after the noun. How can you call someone a no-good
two-bit lily-livered weasel-eating bastard when you have to say “bastard” first
and then “no-good two-bit lily-livered weasel-eating?”
It kind of loses
something.
