A Small Indiscretion

by Jan Ellison

IT’S NOT ALWAYS WISE to assume that just because the surface of the world appears undisturbed, life is where you left it.

PEOPLE SAY a mother is only as happy as her least happy child.

“I brought my laundry.” “That was collegiate of you.”

There was a woman standing at the counter barking out one of those ridiculously precise and long-winded orders, a nonfat decaf triple-shot mocha, extra hot, no whip, or some such thing. While her “coffee” was being prepared, she went outside to check on her dog.

In any event, you can believe or not believe whatever you like.” “Thank you for your permission.”

And her want was not for dogged faithfulness—and not even for love—but for unfamiliar flesh, for bone against her own bone.

Okay, Annie, but you're writing this in a letter to your son. That's just a bit ... yikes.

I knew it wasn’t the right kind of love, because it required nothing of me. I did not need to worry about keeping it alive or putting it out since it was kept alive quite independently of anything I might or might not do.