“He said he would give me the moon,” Charlene said, pacing.
She did the math: 52 weekends times 20 years, Cleveland to Fredericktown, 200 flat, cow-dung scented miles round-trip, equaled the distance to the moon. She rued gravity and its cheap motels.
“gravity and its cheap motels” = awesome
Thanks, Jennifer! <3
I rue gravity sometimes too. …
I bet you do! And I’m guessing so would Mr. Stamper.
Sounds like he fell a bit short to me!! Nice! ♥
Yes, he did, Kathy! Thanks for reading.
That last line tho.
Good? I hope so. Thanks for reading, pandahaus!