Something to read as I work on my next novel.
I don’t Black Friday shop. Being five-foot-two, I have never had the desire to be trampled into a human pancake, black heel imprints on my forehead.
I work hard to clear up the skin on my forehead. I don’t want footprints on it. Acne products are expensive, man.
However, Friday (yes, The Friday, Black Friday, the big kahoona), giddy from getting my hair done, I waltzed to my nearest Best Buy, blissfully unaware of the ugly shopper’s flurry that surrounded me.
I like to go on drives at night; quiet, peaceful strolls around the suburban neighborhoods.
Autumn leaves crunch under the weight of my old Sedan. I crack the window, and a crisp breeze cools my face. Pumpkin spice wafts from the kitchens of model homes, houses all painted rose and cream. This is a place where nothing bad happens, where a girl like me can live alone.
But even when the darkness falls, my hair rises with the static of a threat looming in the doorways of my home.
A presence that I know isn’t there—but then I look again.
Have you ever personally invited yourself to a gathering?
An acquaintance announces that after the church social, “a couple of us are going/doing…,” and it’s this dangling invitation, floating in the air, waiting for you to grab it.
The lovely Megan from Lazy Thoughts made such an invitation to do the Christmas Tag.
And this is me, grabbing it.
