I wanted to ride the horse. It was the oldest horse they had at the ranch.
Not sure how horse years translate to human years but this one was old.
And it had an old name. Gertrude. I rode the horse and I didn’t enjoy it. She was very slow and I could almost feel the ache of her bones. I was sorry I had put my weight on her.

I had to go in and see him and take off my clothes and explain myself.
He was very understanding, though he’d evidently not lived the life I’d lived.
He gave good advice. And medication.
He told me to have a good weekend.

Blynn entered the kitchen where Jeremy sat with his device instead of eating his breakfast cereal and showed him the drone she’d found stuck in their chinaberry tree.
“Another one?” Jeremy said, without looking up. Nothing seemed to shock him anymore. But he was known to burst out with laughter for the oddest reasons.
Evidently, finding the fourth drone in their backyard chinaberry was no longer funny.
It was serious, Blynn thought as she put it on the counter with the other three drones.

Sure, why not? It’s no skin off my teeth. Sure I can do that. Yep. No problem.
But can you do this for me: tie my shoes. I’m too lazy to do it myself. I don’t want to bend down. My stomach gets in the way and I feel like I can’t breathe.
Thank you. That is very good. You tie shoes very well. No, I wasn’t planning on asking you for anything more today. But I might later this week.

No, I am not just going to make up things for this week, for you to do for me. But so what if I did? Isn’t that what you’re doing, have been doing for the last twenty years?

You haven’t? Oh. Okay. Sorry.

Or else, he said
Or else what? I said.
Or else I won’t love you anymore, he said.
Fine, I said.
No, I mean I will never love you, he said.
Fine with me, I said.
I mean never ever, he repeated.
I’m okay with that.
Well you’re going to do it anyway, he says.

No! Not baby steps! Big steps! Hurry, you’re running late for your appointment. The appointment you should have made and could have made decades had you not taken so many fucking baby steps. You’re seventy-two years old now. All those baby steps amount to the mind of a twenty-four year old. You are decades behind. And now, frankly, from the looks of your painfully, tiny, slow steps, you are only doing this because of your arthritis.

“But there’s no where to hide,” he said, as he looked wherefore he should darteth.
“Of course there isn’t,” she said, gun cocked, ready to aim and fire. “Who said anything about hiding?” And with she aimed and fired.

Hey, girl. You will never die. You are the one exception to the Universe.
So party on, my friend.

I must tell people that I was not born with this face. I must tell them that I’ve had a nose job. Someone from Johns Hopkins built my beauty.
And as I tell my friends and colleagues about my nose job I know they will have questions, for which I am prepared to answer. I’ve been preparing for years.
I’ve practiced the answers, read them aloud, committed them to memory.
I must also tell them that my explanations are built. My whole personality is built. I must tell them that although I am attractive and gather large flocks of people who now want to engage in conversations, sex and fun with me, that I have no fucking clue who I am.
I must tell them I am lost beauty. I know they will laugh at me. I am prepared for laughter. I am prepared to laugh back and tell them that surgery will not fix their whole life. It will only expose questions and answers and the constant fixing of them.
I will then tell them that I am having a face lift next week and so they won’t see me for a bit.
And I am prepared for those questions.
But I have yet to prepare my answers.