Don’t look, I told myself. I didn’t want to see what the anchor woman liked to do after three martinis. But it wasn’t as easy as turning away, this new sense of mine. At work, I looked inside my boss’s head, a shallow crevasse. I always knew he was an ass.
In the afternoon, disaster was averted because I saw the trucker dreaming of his Lazy-boy. And what confidence I felt when challenging my son on his undone homework that night. Exhausted, I wore my green gingham gown to bed because I saw it reminded my husband of his mother.
–by Becky Ruth Powell