by Kathleen Jones
The first time she drank champagne in the new apartment was on a Saturday morning. She was too nervous to look for the box with flutes because it was Leta who’d come over with the bottle, a surprise, and Leta was so bold and sharp and red-lipped, always moving quick. So she set out the chipped souvenir mugs from Rio, which had only just been rinsed of her and Greg’s coffee. There was no orange juice. They drank the champagne straight and in gulps. Greg was out golfing, and he always golfed for hours. The window was open to sunshine struggling against ugly curtains. Lucinda was on the radio, and thank God, because without her they might never have managed the kiss, effervescent; the remorse and its fading; six months’ dithering; a dig for ancient sorrows or answers; the plan; twin divorces; their brown dog running under a kite-filled sky.
Kathleen Jones is a writer, designer, and teacher living in Wilmington, N.C. She holds an MFA in poetry from UNC Wilmington. Her work is forthcoming from LEVELER and Heavy Feather Review and can be found in Ninth Letter online, The Boiler, Baldhip, and elsewhere.