Gun to my chest, I admit, okay, it wasn’t the wisest to mention, mid-coitus, to Bobbie Ann that her little pride of Yutan—Charley Rose—was starting to really shape out in the back end; that those gymnastics and tumbling classes had really firmed things up. This bad decision made worse because Charley Rose wasn’t my blood; had been pulled away from her own father some six years ago because he had turned just such an imaginable offense into action. Bobbie Ann screaming to me that, at fourteen, Charley was starting to get a fair shake on things, starting to untwine herself from the ugliness that life had bound her up in. I shook my head and nodded, naked, that yes, of course, it was a stupid thing to say, but how else was I, thick in the rear end of Charley’s own similarly-shaped mother, supposed to respond, in half thrust, when the words Charley Rose and gymnastics and butt came from the lips of Bobbie Ann? Only later did I realize that she was referring to Charley Rose’s hang ups uttered to her mere moments before I’d come in and pulled Bobbie Ann upstairs, not having seen her for three days from an out of town work stay, and tearing a rabid one into her bottom flesh pocket. I hear a hollow click, click, click and realize that either Bobbie Ann is great at proving a point, or she’s biding her time, trying to find the right one.
Gene Kwak is from Omaha, Nebraska.