Hitting the Wall

by Bill Yarrow

I hadn't seen her since Carter was
President. Everything about her had
turned white, even her beauty marks.
I faced her strangeness and fumbled
for the past. The time we went crabbing
on the Chesapeake. Her imitation of
Barbara Mandrell. Playing lawn darts
at my Mom's. I tried to talk, but only
whispers slithered out. She pretended
to understand what I was saying,
then said, “Wasn't it fungible to have
run across each other?” Fungible? I
questioned. She slapped me—hard.
Then her perfume returned—with a vengeance.