The Winemaker Has A Story He’s Going To Tell You Whether You Like It or Not
The tasting room is a dozen steps down from the tourist-packed street and at least ten degrees cooler. Abby lets out a relieved sigh and flaps her arms at the elbow to dry the pit sweat from her dark t-shirt.
And he thought of his father, and of how he had always thought as a boy that a man was a family thing, and he thought that the next time he went home, he would tell his father that he knew now that a man was not a family thing, that he was not firstly a family thing at least.
During the spring semester of my international graduate program, I responded to an ad for a babysitter. The father wrote back and invited me for an interview. I consulted my Amsterdam map, hopped on my bike, and found their address, a house somewhere on the edges of affluence.
Celia stood at the patio door, staring at the pink haze beyond the ridge. Her white cotton nightgown billowed with the cool air from the floor register and she sipped from a tumbler of iced tea, the glass slippery with condensation.