M.P. would like to say she swept into the room.
It’s the only way to make an entrance.
It would be a lie.
On the swing, Skeeter gnaws a toothpick lazily.
“Quit trying so hard and just siddown already.”
She bristles; reaches into her dress for a retort.
“You’re fresh out. Besides, a porch doesn’t count as a room anyway.”
Scowling, she plops down beside him and starts in on the bag of cherries she holds.
The fruit has never been consumed with such a vengeance.
Mid-chomp, she squints up at him.
“How do you do that, anyway?”
He chuckles.
“Easy. You’re not me.”
M.P. avoids his eyes and wishes she didn’t understand.
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