Hi everyone. Hope you all are having a good weekend! Spring has officially sprung, but as I’m sure many of you DO NOT NEED TO BE TOLD, blizzards and snowstorms named Uma are still dumping loads of the white stuff are refusing to shove off and let pretty flowers and green grass come out! I’m one of the lucky ones. I got a nice visit from 2 wasps in the past 2 days and we’re in for thunderstorms here in Our-Kin-Saw! I hate summer here, but spring is pretty fun. We get some good shows, weather-wise.
My semi-snippet this week calls to mind the frigid winter weather of one of my other homes in the great state of Idaho, where my sophomore book, Bright, takes place. My 2 MCs, Monty and Walter, are barely getting to know each other. They’ve just had an awkward dinner with Walter’s stepmother, Helena, whom Monty has already decided he’s not fond of, and now the two are doing the after-meal cleanup. It’s Monty’s POV:
He lets me wipe the dishes dry with a cloth, but he insists on
washing them himself. He moves around the kitchen effortlessly.
He’s lived here for years, otherwise how could he get around
without bumping into and tripping over things?
I see him squeeze pink grapefruit–scented dish soap into the
steamy water basin. He swirls his hand around, testing the cleansing
power of scald. He uses a stiff-bristle brush. Every dish, every spoon,
every cup, is lathered and immaculately scrubbed of all grease and
Again, something about his hands. Something strange. But the
observation is fleeting…
Because I remember them on my face, touching, exploring,
As I dry the dishes, I’m shaking delicately beside him. My heart is
gently pounding under my t-shirt.
At nine o’clock, the old woman retires for the evening with nary
more than a muttered, “’Night,” to nobody in particular. Walter
jumps onto the soft, smooshy dark-green couch like he’s diving ass
first into a fabric pool. “Here, take the remote. I can’t see to change
the channels. I never go to bed early. I just watch TV until I’m
tired,” he says.