Spring Flowers by Cori Jones
One day when she was looking for something in the medicine cabinet, she found a stick of eyeliner on the top shelf. It lay against the back, one of his old prescription bottles almost hiding it.
One day when she was looking for something in the medicine cabinet, she found a stick of eyeliner on the top shelf. It lay against the back, one of his old prescription bottles almost hiding it.
The sales people tell me what I need is a statement coat, that in a Sea Of Neutrals this red coat will be an Outfit-Maker, A Diamond In The Rough.
What you have long suspected is true. I know. It happened to me on April 11, 2013, a Sunday. My husband served me coffee and croissants in bed. Ada, the terrier, joined us and snuggled beneath the covers.
He hands me a scrabble dictionary. He wants me to squawk words at him in the middle of the night. We sit on his mother’s couch.
Back then we used to dance slowly to Sam Cooke’s “You Send Me” on your parquet floors, whispering about planting our vegetable garden, planning to seed the lawn with centipede grass, promising to count all the red cars that came down the street.