The zipper on Imogen’s suitcase was sticking again, and the frustration was not entirely unwelcome. The thick August air wrapped around her Georgian apartment was making the white wine go down fast, and after a few more unsuccessful tugs on the slider, she kicked the bed in defeat and sat down on the rug, sweat dripping from her forehead.
Cecily was a young woman who lived within the lines. She colored within the lines, parked within the lines; she followed recipes to the letter and she never rolled through stop signs. She made her bed up every morning and she took her makeup off each night. At the age of twenty-eight, Cecily still stepped over every crack in the sidewalk. She was not a religious woman, but rather a methodically fearful one, and she preferred to avoid any problems that could be prevented by behaving as she had been taught to behave.
Adam and Eve
It was early afternoon in the summertime, and Twyla sat alone at a dusty table. She was running her wet finger along the rim of her wine glass, trying to make it sing. Racks of expensive bottles lined the café walls, many of which would likely never be opened. From among them she had selected a merlot, because her mother drank merlot; it was a 2022 vintage. There were hardly any fires that year, and she could only imagine what this bottle might have cost. Drinking slowly, she savored each sip like her memories of the summer it represented. She toasted to her mom.