Too tall Sally was sitting in a whicker chair…the cicadas were whispering and the willows were sleeping. She was built for speed, but had everything Uncle John need. Her long limbs, could fit in the back of a Chevy, but she’d spend most of her days folded like an accordion in that chair, her ankles crossing over the armrests. She didn’t mind the heat, and she certainly didn’t mind the slow, rhythmic scraping of Uncle John’s knife against the cedar.
Uncle John, was leaking grease…tobacco juice from his mouth. Whittling a totem with his pocketknife. He leaned back against the porch rail and chuckled, “The birds are quiet today, almost like they’re listening for something that isn’t coming.” He claimed he has the misery, but he’s havin’ a lot of fun. He saw Aunt Mary coming, so he ducked back in the house.
Too Tall Sally unfolded herself from the wicker chair, all six-foot-one of her uncoiling smoothly, and padded over to him in bare feet. She knew his rhythms. She knew how to fit her long frame against his, even if she usually had to tuck herself in like a mismatched puzzle when they tried to spoon on his narrow iron cot.
They’d tried it just an hour ago in the heavy shadow of the bedroom. She’d curved right into the small of his back, her long legs tangling with his, the heat rising between them like summer steam off the asphalt. But Uncle John had huffed and grumbled, shifting his weight with a groan. Despite all his sweet talk and the sly heat in his hands, he just couldn’t get his totem up.
Age and stubborn whiskey had a way of grounding even the best of intentions. Uncle John had his misery, Too Tall Sally had her patience, and there was always tomorrow for the wood to stand at attention.
