If You Tell Them What They Want

Harold Brodie Is A Louse And A Lothario Who Cheats At Cards And Has A Different Girl In His Rumble Seat Every Week. That Coupe Of His Is Pos-i-tute-ly A Petting Palace. And He’s A Terrible Kisser To Boot.” Evie’s Parents Stared In Stunned Silence. “or So I’ve Heard.

He Smiles Sadly. "now I Know My Destiny." "what Is It?" "this." He Draws Me In To Him In A Kiss. His Lips Are Warm. He Pulls Me Tighter In His Embrace. The Roots Sigh And Release Their Hold On My Waist And The Wound In My Side Is Healed. "kartik," I Cry, Kissing His Cheeks. "it's Let Me Go." "that's Good," He Says. He Makes A Small Cry. His Back Arches, And Every Muscle In His Body Tightens.

It Keeps Her Purity Vacum-sealed To Preserve Its Freshness For Her Future Husband.

Evie Hadn’t Always Felt That Way. For A Year After James Had Died, She’d Cupped His Half-dollar Pendant Between Her Pressed Palms And Prayed Fervently For A Miracle, For A Telegram That Would Say Good News! It Was A Terrible Mistake, And Private James Xavier O’neill Has Been Found, Safe, In A Farmhouse In France. But No Such Telegram Ever Arrived, And Whatever Possible Faith Might Have Bloomed In Evie Withered And Died. Now She Saw It As Just Another Advertisement For A Life That Belonged To A Previous Generation And Held No Meaning For Hers.

I'm An Oddity Of One, My Strangeness Too Complicated To Explain Or Share.