She's
packed the kids off to spend the weekend with their father. At
last she has the place to herself, a rented farmhouse, a couple dozen
chickens, a pickup that works part-time and a child support check she
finally managed to get from her ex-husband. His problem was that
he didn't want anything much. He was happy being a bricklayer or
being in the army, happy just hanging around the house. She puts
on her best dress and stands in front of the mirror brushing her
hair. She looks good, a little big in the chest maybe, but good
for being the mother of two. It's mid-afternoon and the whole
weekend is ahead. The summer wind nags at the house and flaps the
blind at the window behind her so that it sounds like someone
impatiently turning the pages of a newspaper. She imagines a man
there, lying on the bed, glancing up occasionally to hurry her along,
jingling the change in his pocket. It makes her nervous and
angry. She fidgets with the dress, extracts a pair of earrings
from the clutter of perfume and baby bottles on the bureau, smears her
makeup. She hurries. It isn't what she wants.
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