the test strip and the coward

It’s Tuesday, and I look over at Isel. She’s riding in my passenger’s seat, chewing on one of my used blood-testing strips that I’ve tossed into the door handle compartment. I hope my inward gulp isn’t splattered all over my face.
“But I’ve got to tell her!” I think. “She has no clue!”
“Sweetie, can you stop chewing on that?” I hear myself say… in my head. In real life, I don’t say anything. I think: At least I don’t have any communicable diseases. And she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Telling her — the girl who freaks out when I pick up a moth (“Gross! Ew! Ew! Ew!”) — would only alarm her unnecessarily.
So I don’t tell her. I grip the steering wheel and keep glancing over, hoping something big and important will capture her attention before she looks over at me with her dark Latina eyes and asks, “What is this thing anyway?”

    • M
    • October 3rd, 2006

    I LIKE this. A snippet from what would make an intriguing short story. I absolutely love your gift with words–your gift for expression and for storytelling. When your precious little baby comes along, you use that gift and tell stories. Or write stories about the baby. Something. Keep using it.

    I LIKE this!

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