[This one’s for you, Laurell K. Hamilton]
Yesterday my husband came home to a sink full of dirty
dishes and a basket of clean, but not-yet-folded laundry. It doesn’t sound like
much, but on top of the disaster area that is our home, it was just too much.
It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I had been whining about being
sick for two days and used that as my excuse for lying on the couch and
reading all day.
“I’m trying to finish this book,” I told him when he asked.
“You mean you’re trying to finish reading that book instead of finishing writing
your own?” he retorted, stuffing another dish in the already over-flowing
dishwasher.
What could I say? I didn’t say anything. Sometimes you just
have to know when not to say
anything. I closed Skin Trade and set
it aside. Those last ten or so pages would just have to wait.
As soon as he
was gone, tucked away into bed sound asleep, I tore through those last few
pages and debated taking Bullet from
its place on top of the ginormous television, out of the reach of sticky
toddler fingers. But I didn’t. I sulked and edited my own book, printing
endless sheets of paper to take to campus today. And as soon as my errands were
finished this afternoon, I took down Bullet and
began to read, promising myself just a few pages…
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