Thursday, March 1, 2012

Country Husband.

I don't think it hit eighty, but if it did, it didn't count: the humidity was so low that soon after it got dark you wanted for long sleeves, maybe even a hat—we ate outside with neighbors, happy Cheevered suburbanites that we are, reveled in the purity of our friendships, our good fortune. The stars wheeled overhead. The kids did minor, fleeting damages to one another. Wine in glasses, beer in cans. We were backyarded. March 1st. Somebody said snow on Monday. I'm not buying it, but hell: from tonight's vantage point, any forecast seemed possible, seemed like a fine idea.

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