There's a stretch of woods along the road home. At night it can turn any odd sound into a prowling coyote, an escaped murderer or your ex-husband. You can either breathe deeply, listen for a hoot owl and whistle yourself back to calm, or you can succumb to a blind panic that will send you fleeing up the middle of the road, flat-footed and round-hipped, to pause on the other side, by the Gaffey's mailbox, hunched over and about to vomit from the stress or the effort or the thought of your ex-husband out in the woods you successfully left behind.
Els Prats de Rei
1 day ago