![]() ![]() ![]() Glenda, which was my mom, rolled between him and me in the cab, smelling of her "tea," as she called her rum and colas, and last night's sweat and this morning's perfume, her head pretty often soft on my shoulder and her breaths going up my nose. He whipped off a skinny country rock road and dove the truck down a slope of plain young weeds towards a creek that slobbered and swung under some trees for shade and parked. ![]() He had a variety of ugly tones to speak in and used them all at me on most days. His voice always wanted to introduce me to them waiting worms. His voice to me seemed always to have those worms in it that eat you once you're dead and still. RED MADE ME GET OUT and paint the truck another color once we'd crossed the state line. ![]()
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