Tuesday, June 5, 2012

 "Don’t call me Lucille.” I adjust my generous bra and stoop to tie a trailing pink shoelace. “If my 38s hadn’t jammed on the window ledge, I’d have made it to the ground and be ten miles down the road by now, flaming red hair and all." I give him one of my frosty frowns and say, "Like Lucille Ball would have in one of her I love Lucy shows.” I make a show of rubbing my elbow. "It still throbs from when I tripped yesterday... trying to avoid having you throw me in the car like a runaway barn cat dragging a stolen sack of fresh salmon.”