I wondered about stuff like if her nylons went all the way up or if they were thigh highs. I wondered about what kind of bra she was wearing. Was it lacy? Was it sheer or cotton? Thoughts like these often kept my mind busy in class when I was supposed to be learning math. When I was a sophomore in high school Ms. Daniels husband was killed in an accident. It was very hard on her for a long time but a lot of people in our church helped her through it. I for example volunteered to cut her grass for her every week. She had a big back yard but I didn’t care one bit. It was more time that I had to possibly see Ms. Daniels. Week after week during the hot summer I would show up on a Saturday and start mowing her lawn.Several times she would come out on her back porch, usually in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and wave at me to show that she had drinks waiting. I would spend a couple of minutes chatting with her while I drank up and every week she would try to pay me, but I. The fire sputtered and danced, and the soft, throbbing glow painted highlights along our hips as we joined and melted together. I watched our shadows dancing in the firelight, a tender ballet of motion… building slowly, first as two, then as one. Turning… moving… joining… and then, joining again. Our shadows arched and fell, melting into the slumber. The crackling of the fire began to fade, and the cabin slipped from view. Another day assaulted me. The clanging of the metal doors began to scream up and down the catwalk as the ever-present stink of prison filtered into my nose. I stumbled from the bunk, stretching and cursing. I started to reach for the Marlboro box, only to remember I had but one half inch of tobacco filled paper left. I teetered on the edge of want and discretion, and finally stuffed the box in my shirt pocket. Time for the daily mental ritual: “Set your sights on the first good thing. So, what the fuck is it? Mail! Just after breakfast, there’s mail!” Had she.
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