Judy Doenges Odin tried to look restless when the subject of women came up, restless or impatient, as if he had no time for such trivialities. He had a secret, one that would bring trouble and blame upon him, though he'd done little to deserve either. He'd dreamed of one man, still unfound, and he'd wandered, looking, as anyone would. We're plenty astonished. Summer's come, shuffling in like a laid-off textile worker.
Radio towers rise like pines through the mist behind the convenience store.
Its white sign stutters on as dawn arrives, tipping its lavender hat, settling on each pelican lawn ornament and pink garden frog. It started three days ago when she'd come onto his place, stamping the snow off her cowboy boots outside the door, and found Kurt cleaning his rifle. She froze at the sight of the thirty-thirty, declared she hated guns, had no idea he owned one, doubted she could have been seeing a man who kept a gun. She wasn't joking. If the phone rings at a time just when you're passing it, answer it.