Judy Huddleston
We pulled into the motel; he let his dog in first. Maybe not…Maybe there was no
dog and it just seemed like it. This was in Washington, somewhere after Port
Townsend or maybe Port Angeles, some port with Victorian houses. It was late
and we smoked hash. It was late and the sex wasn’t that good. Even after oysters
in Seattle, it was my money we were spending.
I’m sorry if I’m not enough for you. His resentment echoed like my father
speaking to my mother. So many years and back again. I turned in the wintry
sheets, hunched into the fact of disappointment. It was true, all true: his crazy
driving, my shrinking feeling, this bad motel room. The dog that might have
been between us.