Derek ran his fingers gingerly over the cool, shiny surfaces the way other men caressed inner thighs. From the time he was old enough to see over the work bench, he had dreamed of this day. He had flown out the day the attorney call to say his father’s will was to be opened.
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She stroked her arms with coconut-smelling oil before adjusting the huge sunglasses beneath her too long bangs. She lay back with her arms akimbo.
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As she folded the last of the laundry, she realized how tired she really was.
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Maggie was getting tired. It was the eighth town, twelfth job, sixteenth rental. She had given up on trying to make friends 60 days into her two-year upheaval. She had coping mechanisms, though.
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“Maude, I am certain I have one week and two days to live.”
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