It was a sultry July day as I stepped out of the taxi; Ali would have loved it. As I walked into the synagogue, however, I reflected how much she would have hated that. Ali despised all religion – I wanted to give her a humanist funeral, but whereas her family had totally rejected her in life, in death they had reclaimed her, doing their best to freeze me out entirely.
This story began a bit over five years ago as I write this, little did I know when I accepted this assignment that my life would be changed forever. United States Marine Sergeant Robert A. Whitson and I would begin rehabilitating him physically and mentally as he learns that the roadside bomb in Afghanistan took only his feet. He is still every bit the man he was prior to his injury. This is our story.
"I'm sorry, what was that you just said, Mrs. Pettington?"
What a tiresome woman. I had just now been distracted from listening to her by the way she snapped her fingers at Kisula and then gave him a distasteful look when he refilled her coffee cup.
"I said, Mr. Woolston, that I hardly think we need worry about these rumblings from the tribal huts. England has held this protectorate in Tanzania since the war, and we will do so as long as the London cafés need their coffee."
Kenny Cho arrived at the Korean restaurant just as the other members of the group arrived. The group comprised of mainly gay Asian men of various ages and nationalities and some of their invited, non-Asian male friends/partners. Once a month the group would dine out at an ethnic restaurant of their choosing. Last month was Vietnamese.
Pamela watched the pick-up truck pull into her drive and wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron; her hired hand was here. Her husband had passed away three years ago and she had milked their prize herd all by herself as well tended the farm's crops. For all her hard work she'd finally managed to make the last payment on the small farm and this year opted to hire a full-time summer employee.
The name's Michael. I'm an Irish boy from nowhere in particular, and the bright-red ponytail I wear is more than enough proof of that. I dress well enough when I need to; my work wardrobe usually consists of black wingtips, tight-fitting black slacks that are a little loose around the knees to allow for bending, and a dark solid button-down. I'm a relatively fit guy; I bike to work every morning and jog in the evenings.
I was sitting in my living room that Sunday morning, working on the broken clasp of one of my anklets, my favorite anklet. The most expensive piece of jewelry I owned, it was a silver chain studded with diamond chips given to me by an ex-girlfriend. But the price tag was hardly the reason I cherished it. She gave it to me last year for my twenty- fourth birthday and I considered it a sign of how she felt about me. I was in love with her and it was her way of saying she felt the same.
Sabrina Kelley waved her hand furiously as the icy Manhattan wind whipped through and around her bones.
The New York skyline was rapidly approaching dusk and the evening forecast predicted a heavy round of snowfall in just a matter of hours. Though there was no one there to greet her or make her feel at home, Sabrina desperately wanted to make it back to her hotel room before the bad weather began.
Annabelle's cotton sheets have ducks on them. They're not made of as nice of a material as the satin I'm laying on now, but the ducks are so cute and so her. I can imagine Annabelle's face when she'd determined that I stood her up on New Year's Eve. I feel so horrible and so cold.
My heart seems to falter when she walks in the bar. I vaguely hear my friend Samantha, who reluctantly dragged me out tonight, yell at me from a few feet away. I don't make any movement though. I am staring at what, until this moment, was only a dream. My friend finally fights her way over to me, muttering something about me being deaf and all I do is nod forward.