Late August, a cat rolling in mown grass flips to its back again, then to its feet, half sun-drunk, half whiplash tail. I am loved. Not. Am. I’ve mastered these tricks: at parties after my husband’s “break a leg,” rolling an ice cube on my tongue, my eyes rolling over crowded rooms, my body buckled forward rolling over words. Rolling my eyes, having blood drawn, the vial filling slowly as flood water rising. Rolling through one marriage, then breaking it off, holing up, each of us rolling away into our second marriages, pretending to be dead.
Photo Credit: steve p2008