Jen > Books: humor (16) ×

In strewn banners that lay like streamers from a longago parade the sun’s fading seraphim rays gleamed onto the hood of the old Ford and ribboned the steel with the meek orange of a June tomato straining at the vine. From the back seat, door open, her nimble fingers moved along the guitar like a weaver’s on a loom. Stitching a song. The cloth she made was a cry of aching American chords, dreamlike warbles built to travel miles of lonesome road. They faded into the twilight, and Silas leaned back on the asphalt, as if to watch them drift into the Arkansas mist.

Away from them, across the field of low-cut durum wheat, they saw Evangeline’s frame, outlined pale in shadow against the highway sky, as it trembled.

That’s the way it is with a song, isn’t it? she said. The way it quivers in your heart. Quivers like the wing of a little bird.

In a story too. He spoke it softly in a voice that let her hear how close they were. That’s the way it is with a story. Turns your heart into a bird.

What you said: "Man, I am so tired."
Quick, b

What you said: "Man, I am so tired."
Quick, backpedal: "And I haven't been working a tenth as hard as you have. You're amazing, did you know that?"
What you should have said: "Those boots you liked on Zappos.com -- let's order them. No, I will. You've done enough."
Damage control: Buy the boots, then make dinner.

What you said: "How come I don't have any clean socks?"
Quick, backpedal: " . . . is what I keep asking myself, because after all maintaining my wardrobe is my responsibility. . . I love you.
What you should have said: "Laundry time! Do you want me to hand-wash your intimates?
Damage control: Do the laundry and never say the word "socks" again in the house.