Morning Stories

Love is flighty, most of all in its opening stage. Every now and then it remembers itself and goes flighty again. The flutter of butterflies in the belly. The flutter of knees. The fluttery liability of shared birth control.

“Of course I can shift into a lower gear.” Especially when you’re driving down a residential street. Going deep — depth — is a word and an action that has somehow slipped out of modern life. Probably somewhere into the deep end.

For fifty years, the family has lived next to the same neighbour. Every morning, a friendly nod across the driveway. They share an access road, a river, a history. Life and community work seamlessly and peacefully. Then one day, a dark cloud appears — one nobody saw coming. The cloud arrives as a document in an anonymous envelope in the mailbox. This single sheet of paper is pure dynamite for the neighbourhood. The document states that you and your family represent a serious and present threat to your neighbour’s interests. Excuse me?

The impact was less hard than expected. But the burning on my cheek was impossible to ignore — and good advice was hard to come by. It felt like a clap in the face. Though this very thing — advice in certain situations — is often an uninvited guest. Or the fifth wheel on the wagon.

He wasn’t suddenly there in the room. He’d been present for quite some time. But nobody wanted to notice Dumbo. Or worse: talk about Dumbo. That would be what you might call an absurdity. An absurdity by the name of Dumbo.

Risk? What reads here like the name of a chocolate bar turns out to be far more complex in practice — and rarely comes with any sweetness attached.

Two-edged? Isn't that just standard in the production of a sword? Anyway, the comparison doesn't limp — because the sword hasn't been used yet. Or so I think.

"So, Eve, how are you doing?" "Oh, thanks for asking. I think I'm doing well." "Eve — were you even asked?"