TRUE MATE REJECTED
He seems to be assessing me, sizing me up like I size up a catfish before reaching
down into the mud for it. After a beat, he pivots and strides toward a spigot jutting from the wall. He fills a glass jar, steps in my direction, and hands it to me. “Please, sit.”
He points to a grand chair that might be a throne for the kings Mama read books about. It’s long and made of silver arms and legs and a white mattress in a seated position. It could fit a whole slew of kings. I know of furniture, since I built a table for our house, and shelves for our things, but Mama and I live simply.
Bab Populer