Myrtle

They were making reserve contributions, but nothing ever made it to the bank. They’d stop in a back alley or some empty lot to fuck and afterwards George would light a Camel and Janine would sit there in the passenger seat with her panties still twisted around her knees and think about her grandmother.

Cribbage at 8, in bed by 10. She still thought Janine was going for her degree.

After about 15 minutes, her paramour would flick the butt of his cig out the window and drive them to some roadside motel so he could wash her impression off his skin. Then he’d go home to his wife and Janine would pretend to go see a movie.

Pulling at her faded bikini briefs, she noticed the trees. They looked like crape. Crape was in their name, wasn’t it? Grandma had loved them because…

Because they’d had her name.

“Oh, she said, shutting her eyes before they spilled over, “look at the trees.”

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