Last year, I wandered into a gallery upstate while visiting Grandmother. A blonde woman smiled, handed me chardonnay. Colorful abstracts covered the walls. It was her opening.
I recognized the name. To her, I was anyone.
Stepping outside for air, a black mutt greeted me. I scratched him behind the ears.
“I see you’ve met Scotty.”
She asked what I thought of the show. I lied.
“Friend me on Facebook,” she quipped.
Ironically, her husband had unfriended me.
Recently I posted a poem about a doomed affair. She hearted it and commented, “Bastard!”
I replied, thumbs up.
Sally Simon writes to avoid shoveling snow, while simultaneously slaying old demons with words. It’s a win-win.