Water Over The Bridge

I rolled down the car window to let the security guard know the last name of the people’s whose home I’m visiting. Here on Tapps Island, they mean business. As I did, a gust of wind blew a raindrop straight into my ear hole. Just one. I wished I’d told the high schooler in a forest green hoodie, with his head tilted sideways to the weather and standing unprotected next to the security shack, of my sympathy for him. But the direct hit to my ear overtook everything else.

I’m in the market for a new pair of boots. Not the ones that Kate Middleton wears with tassels on the side. Because those cost $700.

That’s not a good sign. Thinking our friend’s house was around the corner and seeing a dead-end sign, unfortunately, means I was lost.

I don’t think you know this, but the surface of our garage’s floor is epoxy. To its credit, it is shiny and cool looking. Still. Who of sound mind and body, living in the Northwest, would ever make such a poor decision?

Little and big scattered pools leave the floor slippery, and since the surface is as non-porous as plastic, the water sits there, looking at me dumbly, shrugging its shoulders, saying, “I don’t know” for weeks.

I believe I completed a full circle on this island full of one-ways and secret golf cart paths. I hope this “Outlet” sign will lead me back to the little free library I can orient from.

Floor mats are my solution. That and a big mop.

After three attempts, I’m calling Dave. My ego is bruised, but that lasagna dinner awaits, I realize can’t do this alone.

Love, Jaclynn

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