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Lisa Boylan  Sam Flute

(We’ve moved on from amaretto to Frangelico.) He stands up, I watch him in slow motion as he walks toward me, puts his sweating drink down on the flagstone, and straddles my lap. My face is buried in his chest, smooth skin flushed like a nectarine. He pulls me into him and we don’t say anything for a very long time, in repose, letting the sun and the garden heal it all, silently. The pregnancy part happens because we’re not using birth control at all. I think we don’t want barriers to anything. No mixer, no dilution, just mainlined. One day when Sam doesn’t have to drive the tow truck and Alexander’s camp is finished, we go on an outing. We are free. We pile into his pickup truck and his sister Bridget comes out to the driveway with a bandana and a lunch bag. She says, “Sam, take me!” My heart sinks, but the feathery girl piles into the pickup cab with us. She shoots me a victorious smile. He slaps her thigh and off we go, mid-morning on a weekday, to the Chesapeake. We drive out of the congested hot summer confusion of Washington and glide across the bridge, against traffic, against the high season, toward the brackish inner coastal refuge. It looks like an antebellum plantation house, an incongruous white mansion set on the water, the same beacon that greeted me the night Holly drove out to collect Sam. Sam says, “You can go change into your bathing suits upstairs. Bridget, show Alice where to go.” Bridget snorts and takes my hand. “This is the old part of the house, the really old part and there is a secret stairway. Check this out.” We come into the huge kitchen with a stone fireplace and she opens a narrow door and leads me up a steep white staircase to a cloistered bedroom with twin cast-iron beds. “This is me and Annie’s room.” I have my suit crammed into my purse. I really don’t want to change in front of Sam’s little sister. I can hear the dinner conversation now. She was sunburned, like a lobster! And her thighs… “Is there a bathroom up here?” “It’s OK, you can get naked! I know Sam’s seen you naked.” I mumble something. She singsongs, “We’ve seen you! In the pool at home!”

Sam Flute  
Sam Flute  

Story I wrote about Tucumcari in an anthology of DC women's writers.