Don’t ask me why (okay, you can, just don’t expect a good answer 😉 ) but I was skipping “T” today and moving straight on to “U.” Shrug. I dunno. I didn’t think I had any issues with “T.” Maybe I’ve discovered one?

Packaging

Cassie is always a little mystified (read hurt, she’s hurt) when someone doesn’t like her. What makes people have snap judgments? She’s knows it must be something about her looks. After all, what else could they base it on?

What makes this man, Mark, with his grating nasal northern accent dismiss her upon sight, nestle himself between Adrienne and her, his back to Cassie, and converse as if she didn’t exist?

She pinches herself to see. Nope. She feels it. She’s definitely here.

She tries to release the vague discomfort as she reaches for her Mango Lango, a Tuttles concoction, accidentally jostling Mark, who glares at her. She shrugs it away. This was her real estate first.

“Oh, my god! It’s Cassie Andrews!” a woman that Cassie has never seen before says.

The color in Cassie’s cheeks deepens. What did I do now? she wonders.

The woman drags a paperback from her purse. It’s Cassie’s first book of poetry from ten years ago.

“Please, I’d love it, if you could sign it.”

Cassie doesn’t ask why the woman carries it in her huge purse. She’s heard that some of those first poems, the ones written after the fire, helped people. The writing, defined catharsis, certainly helped her.

After signing, Cassie jumps to her feet, squeezes Adrienne’s shoulder, and gestures for her to call.

“Who was that?” Mark asks.

“The next poet laureate,” Adrienne says.

Cassie smiles, maybe so.

end

Sascha Darlington 4/23/18