A Knock at the Door

It's Friday night, and I sit down after my very-off-key Karaoke rendition of "YMCA" at Makenna's Saloon, one of my small-town's few places to socialize. I look around at the crowd: all people I know, most drunk or well on the way. Maggie, the bartender, seeing I'm drinking Diet Coke as usual, catches my eye with the dim hope that I will offer to drive someone, anyone, home. But she doesn't ask, she knows I won't, and she knows why. She doesn't blame me: she won't either.

Questions

"What happened?"

"Kashley, don't be rude!" her father says, scolding.

"It's OK, Trey." I look into her six-year-old eyes, this little blond beauty I have loved for four incredible years. She is not my daughter, but, like her father, she is my closest friend. The friendship between us confuses outsiders, but has a closer-than-family feeling to us.

I realize with surprise that neither she, nor her father, ever asked me about the scars on my face before. But Kashley is six now, with more than the usual amount of curiosity that comes with this age. I should have known that she, like many before her, would eventually ask.

"When I was four years old, I did something very stupid and hurt myself."

No if’s, and’s, or but’s about it: He’ll be a thorn in my side

So there I was: biting my tongue, gritting my teeth, and it’s only been 15 minutes. He shows up at the classroom exactly at the time class is to start, but with the wrong keys to open the door.  Ten minutes later, we are sitting at our desks but he can’t take roll because he forgot the student list.  Five minutes after that, we quickly discover this professor – this college graduate – can’t spell. 

Stranger In An Ever Stranger Land

The flight is short between two worlds, less than two hours and I'm landing in an odd, strange world. I remain seated as those around me rush to grab their bags full of their ever-important-stuff from the overhead compartments, rushing to leave the plane even though no matter how much they rush, it always takes at least fifteen minutes to debark and at least an hour to get through Customs and Immigration.

Americans. Always in such a rush to get to the next red light.