The Q

by Beth Brower

He’d also developed a chest cold and a cough, which Quincy felt was inconsiderate. She wasn’t in the mood.

she had never cared for months whose names sounded frivolous. April was the worst of the lot. February was a close second.

since her uncle Ezekiel had died, the city hadn’t shined in the same way. Ezekiel had made everything worth celebrating. Although Quincy had rarely agreed that anything was worth such bother, she missed the sheen he had carried with him.

“No rush, St. Claire. I’d like to stay on your sweet side.” Seeing her face, he added, “Not saying you have one.

“There are few things more tedious than a friend who will not graciously receive.”

“Come to my house Saturday for tea.” “Can’t,” responded Quincy. “I’m busy avoiding human connection.”

She didn’t like being teased; it felt like someone else stubbing your toe.

I will preach, dammit, and I will improve my own character with the same determination, so help me God.”

No sense in being small because someone else doesn’t have the courage to measure up.”