I was wearing masks long before Covid, and I still am. My mask is invisible, I hope.

Like a few months ago, I decided I was finally going to ask for help with the agonizing ache in my left hip when I lie down. I took off my invisible mask—the amiable expression I wear in an attempt to please everyone– and told my doctor that although my annual physical results look fine, I’m not fine. I haven’t had more than a few hours of sleep a night in months. She suggested physical therapy. I chose one my friend told me was totally hands-on—no “go over to that corner and step up and down on that stair for 10 minutes.”  More like, “Lie down.” That guy. We laughed, and I made an appointment.

At my first session, I explained where the pain was, turning to place my palm over the area to the left of my spine. “Bend over,” the PT said, and I dutifully touched my toes. “I can see your left hip is canted back a half inch or so. Nothing terrible. We can fix that,” he said.

Excited that I was going to be fixed, I climbed up onto the exam table and lay on my back while he stood at the foot of the table and tugged on my Sketchers. “Yep. Your left leg is about an inch shorter than your right.”

This is why it is a good thing I was wearing my invisible mask. The one that looks like my face—the face that was nodding in newly enlightened agreement but thinking, “Uh oh, we’ve just gone to Silly Town.”

But you don’t know what you don’t know, and Brad was indeed hands-on. I rolled onto my side, and he put lotion on my hip and began a therapeutic massage. My mask-face said, “Wow, that’s right where it hurts.” But my real face was whispering, “I will pay you one bazillion dollars to keep that up.”

After 8 weeks of this, Brad wanted me to be better, and I wanted to please Brad. “So, you’re doing better, right?” he said, more statement than question, and I said, “Yes” from behind my invisible mask, while my exhausted, sleepless face acknowledged it was time to say goodbye.

I took my hip to an orthopedic surgeon who observed, “You’re in great shape,” while he manipulated my leg in several positions that should hurt but didn’t. My mask face was impassive as I sighed, “Trying to stem the tide.” My invisible face was high-fiving myself all over the place.

The orthopedist had x-rays taken of my spine and hip, and we stood shoulder to shoulder examining them. Everything seemed in good working order. It was like seeing the undercarriage of your car and discovering there hasn’t been any salt damage, even though you never paid the carwash guy extra for the protective coating. But at night, when I rolled over on my left side in bed, the pain was still intolerable. So, my orthopedist ordered an MRI.

The MRI tech, Rick, was about 35, friendly and personable. He put a pillow under my knees, earplugs in my ears, and headphones over them. He asked me what kind of music I wanted to hear. I was charmed. I was the last patient of the day on a Saturday. We were the only people left in the facility besides the desk clerk out in front. It was strangely intimate—there aren’t many places where you are alone with one other person whose sole intent is to figure out why you hurt so you can be healed.

In the MRI tube, it was like being in a machinegun battle. Rapid-fire rounds of ammunition slamming through my heart one minute, then sounding further away, like being fired upon from the ridge the next. I never knew where the next assault would come from, and all the while, ‘You are the only girl for me” played over the sound of battle.

I started to cry. I’m not sure why. I made a note to myself to figure this out because that’s what I do when my feelings don’t match my circumstances. You should do this, too. Discoveries always lie at the heart of contradictions.

I think it may have been a visceral reaction to the loudness of the sound—a brain thing. The amygdala, which processes emotions, is highly sensitive to sound, which is interesting—but it may have been that I wanted to be somebody’s girl—or maybe it was a past-life memory of having really been under fire in an ancient day and time. I wondered if I would react this way without the music.

I needed to wipe the tears away before the tech slid me out of the machine—before I’d be embarrassed by tears I didn’t understand, but I was afraid to move my hand to my cheek. Yet, I also wanted to ask if that has happened to anyone else. Do other patients cry under fire? What has my mind forgotten that my body remembers, and why is it sad? Or is it?

Where was that mask? Released from the machine, I asked the tech what he had seen on the imaging, but he had already put on his invisible mask, and we both pretended he couldn’t read the scan.

I did feel oddly good—as if the experience had been more than diagnostic. It had been therapeutic in some way. The limbic system, which is involved in processing emotion and memory, is activated when we hear music, and sound can release neurotransmitters like dopamine—linked to pleasure and reward. Maybe it was nothing more than that.

But maybe it was being the object of one person’s focused goodwill and desire to help. Maybe it was being encapsulated—no phone to answer, no email to read–nothing required but to breathe and listen. To be held in a space where the entire universe was one voice, one message, coming in through only one sense.

They say hearing is the last faculty to go when we die, and it felt a little like that. Like being in that tunnel of light hearing the last thing I’d ever hear:

“You’re the only girl in this whole shady world,” I heard through my tears.

“And I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

 

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

 

 

 

A quick review before we get to why I am telling you this story.

I worked for five years as a volunteer dog walker at the SPCA before I met Leah.

She was a grossly neglected, 17-pound, black-and-white terrier mix. Her original owner, overwhelmed by the needs of three kids under the age of seven, had recognized his limitations and surrendered the puppy on her first birthday. I’ll always be grateful.

She suffered a bloodborne disease she’d contracted from a tick bite, was on antibiotics, had just been spayed, and had never been groomed, so her hair hung in her eyes and draped from her black, triangular ears like a bat. It was difficult to see her face in the oversized cone placed on her little head to keep her from licking her incision, but a kind heart, one that seemed unconditionally forgiving of her own neglect, radiated from two shiny, bright eyes. As I’ve said before, with a lot of reasons to expect the worst from this life, Leah was love with her high beams on.

I entered the run, and she immediately put her front paws on my knee, stretching as high as she could in her unwieldy headgear to lick my face. She was so sweet and so grateful, but I didn’t fall in love.

I know! I can’t believe it either!

I couldn’t take her on the creek trail because of her stitches, so we just jogged around the admin building and back into the dark and noisy run assigned to her. A week later, I chose her off the walk board again, and we made our second circuit of the admin building. Once again, she climbed my knee, balancing on her hind legs, in an effort to land a grateful lick on my face.

Sometimes, I am soooo slow to hear the universe calling.

The third time I chose Leah off the walk board, a light went off in my head. Small, young, female, dog needs loving home. I’d been dogless for five years. What was I waiting for?

I asked about her availability and was told I had exactly two hours to commit to adopting her. Two hours. At lunchtime that day, I took home a breed I knew nothing about and a companion I was pledged to serve until death do us part. Mine or hers—whoever leaves first.

Here’s what I discovered about her.

She can run 38 miles an hour. She was bred to hunt.

She barks at everything from the Netflix logo to the doorbell.

She hides things, then waits for me to find them. Usually in my bed.

I also discovered that dogs form a unique attachment to one person, even within a loving household. It is not me, and I am not complaining. Love is not a feeling. Love fronts up. I am not the one who feeds her and walks her in the sleet, in 27-degree weather, and I don’t begrudge loyalty to the one who does, though I do my share.

I was walking her in the linger light; the official term is civil twilight—when the sun is no more than 6 degrees below the horizon but going fast. When we were just a few yards from the front steps, I unleashed her so she could run the rest of the way home. She took off on a tear for the brick steps as she always does, but for the first time ever she just kept going.

In an instant, she was beyond my ability to catch up and had disappeared behind a private residence. I chased her, calling, “Leah! Come!” which, let’s face it, sounds a lot like “Leah! Run!” Suddenly, she reappeared—on the fly—airborne, racing out of the first yard and into the next one, clearly on the hunt—taking off down driveways to disappear in neighbors’ mysterious backyard spaces ringed with security cameras and warnings to trespassers.

She was working her way methodically, yard by yard, toward the busiest traffic artery in town. If she got there without me, she’d be a dead dog—no doubt about it—she had tried to bite the rolling wheels of the Fed Ex truck on numerous occasions.

I kept running but was uncertain of my direction because it was longer and longer between sightings. She was now a comet—a shooting star—sightings of this black and white rocket whizzing by a neighbor’s woodpile or garage were becoming less predictable, less frequent. Panicked, I turned back and ran for my car. My car can go 38 mph indefinitely. I cannot.

My neighbor Steve stopped raking leaves, and positioned himself in the road to direct the posse. He pointed silently and emphatically up the next street—She went thataway!

I turned and glimpsed her flying down the hill into yet another stranger’s yard, so I threw the car in park and ran for her. By now, a little boy, maybe 11, sensing the excitement, had joined the pursuit on his scooter. He was following her into neighbors’ yards, one by one, trying to flush her out to where I was now positioned like a goalie between her last known location and the deadly intersection. We became a team, this child and I.

Suddenly, a rabbit raced out of a neighbor’s yard and took off down the sidewalk, Leah in hot pursuit. The boy cut them off as cleanly as if he’d been on a quarter horse. She veered, heading straight toward rush hour traffic and me at a dead run.

As she flew through a patch of ivy, I managed to snag her safety harness. Overwhelmed with relief, I snatched her up in my arms. The boy on the scooter glided up, grinning.

“You watch football?” he asked, navy ballcap over his eyes, one sneakered foot on the scooter, one on the sidewalk.

“Some,” I said.

“Well, that’s what you call ‘escaping the pocket.’”

I glanced down at Leah, now incarcerated in my arms, then back to the boy. “My hero, thank you,” I smiled, thinking my goodness, I love you; I had a boy like you once.

I carried my jailbreaker to the car. And here, at last, is why I am telling you this and why now. At civil twilight, though the sun is gone, you don’t need artificial light yet to see clearly and this is what I saw.

Love is not a feeling. Love is not what you say, no matter how well you try to say it. (This kills me; you know it does.)

Love is that wild, primal instinct to help anyone and everyone. To find the lost. Shelter the injured. Protect the vulnerable. We help the panicked mother who has lost sight of her child at the mall. We offer an arm to the elderly man feeling faint waiting in line. We leave a note on the windshield warning a driver that his tire is flat before he drives off.

We give in the context in which we live, so in the grand scheme, our offerings are small. That’s how fortunate we are. But this is the same instinct ignited by the nightly news. If you could, you would save every injured child in Gaza, shelter every starving refugee, protect every Ukrainian hospital from bombing, and save every hostage the world over. This is the part of you that would hold the world in your arms if you could. The part of you that prays.

Sometimes I think we are nothing more than love looking for an opportunity to express itself.

Maybe love has no gradations. There is no big love and little love. There’s just us, giving what we can.

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

 

 

 

 

 

My smart older sisters have blazed a trail through life for me by example. If I hadn’t received my driver’s license on my first try, for instance, I’d have failed tradition. So, having recently discovered that they both love Pilates, I tried it, too. Things went well until they went horribly wrong.

The trial class proved to be a uniquely pleasant way to exercise– working out flat on my back a great deal of the time– sliding against resistance springs on the moving frame of the bed-shaped apparatus called the “reformer.”  German-born Joseph Pilates, who invented this exercise protocol and patented the reformer, became interested in physical fitness as a teenager and even more so during internment by the British in WW I. At that time, he worked as a nurse, experimenting with attaching springs to hospital beds so patients could start toning muscles while bedbound. In 1923, after years of study and experimentation, he came to New York and began teaching his method, which was an enormous success.

The trial class went by quickly because listening to instructions and correcting my form was a good distraction from watching the clock. Also, the instructor talked to us as if we were very, very young. “No Elvis in the pelvis,” she admonished. “Watch your shoulders; we don’t want grumpy shoulders.” The kindergarten vibe was pleasant—no thinking required. Mama’s got you.

So, I signed up for three months—agreeing to have the fee extracted from my bank account every month and registering for one class a week at the one day and time I could attend.

For the first few weeks, it was fun. I made a new friend. We both showed up weekly in ponytails, read the same science books, and laughed a lot. Then, one day, we entered class, and neither of our names appeared on the electronic check-in tablet. Perplexed because we had signed up and paid at the same time, we told the front desk clerk something was wrong with the system, put on our grip socks, and went on into the workout room. If you are more than 5 minutes late, you forfeit your place, and we are both rule abiders.

Assuming the front desk would resolve the glitch, we laid down on our reformers and started warming up, bending our knees to bring the carriage down, stretching to fully extend it and back again. But about 5 minutes into my stretches, I looked up to find the front desk lady staring down at me. She is very short with a curly gray bob. She is usually a very smiley person. “You’re not registered for this class,” she said, “And” pointing to a lady she had in tow also staring down at me, “she is.”

It’s very hard to have a dignified conversation from flat on your back, but I tried. “Of course, I’m registered! You registered me and took the fee out again just today.”

“You’re not registered,” she repeated as if this was the only sentence she had learned in a foreign language.

I could feel myself getting frustrated, confused, and embarrassed. The whole room was gliding back and forth, listening, and the implication that I had somehow broken a rule and was not part of the group was disorienting. They say the greatest trigger for anger is injustice. I was going there fast.

“But I am registered,” I insisted. “That’s my teacher!” I waved at Miss Mandy, who didn’t acknowledge me. “I’ve been here every week for a month,” I protested as I slid by. I didn’t want to lose my momentum. My replacement stared down at me without expression.

“You are not registered,” the front desk lady repeated.

We were devolving into “am too,”/ “are not.”  I had no recourse but to pack my things and leave the class.

In the vestibule, as Miss Mandy continued to exhort my former classmates to enjoy the “delicious” stretches only a few feet away, my entire afternoon wasted, the front desk clerk explained that although no one had told me when I joined, at this particular club, when you pay for three months, you have not reserved a place in a class for three months. You must re-select your class every 4 weeks. And it’s competitive. You might not get into the class you requested.

So, she was not wrong. I thought I had reserved the 12 class spots I paid for, when in fact I had paid for 12 but only reserved four.

I went home and used my words. I wrote about the embarrassment of having not been informed. About the inelegance of the system. It was a polite letter, not a grumpy letter and I got a very reasonable response. We were all well-intentioned and I really liked the staff. So, I picked up where I had left off and everything was going great again.

But this happened.

The day after being kicked out of class, I received an email requesting that I post an online review of the class I had been required to leave. I demurred. A very vulnerable family member had just been hospitalized, and between worrying and working, and still feeling a bit stung, I just didn’t have the motivation to write the requested glowing corporate promotion. I was lucky I could even get myself to class.

I got another email. Then another. Many, many emails, and then a text. The text said something like, “Hi Laura! This is your Pilates instructor, Mandy! Just hit this link to share a review. (And if it’s not complimentary, don’t post it; just tell us privately how we can help.)”

I was so frustrated by then I thought, all-right all-ready! If Mandy is now asking me personally, I’ll write a review! Anything to make these things stop!

So, I replied to the text. “Hi, Mandy, I have had a family member scary-sick in the hospital, and I work full time, but I am happy to take a moment to share that class has been a pleasant respite from a day at my desk, and you are an excellent instructor.” I hit send and got back a version of this: “This is not really Mandy! You can’t reply to this text; your message was not delivered to anyone.”

Pilates enthusiasts say that in 10 days, you’ll feel better, in 20 days, you’ll look better, and in 30 days, you’ll be a new person.

A new person.

That one gets me every time.

 

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

 

 

 

 

This is a story of being catfished—you know, when you think you’re getting to know an attractive person online with a successful career, who may even have their family name on a wing at the hospital, only you’re actually corresponding with a troll in a third world country emptying your bank account.

And although this is also a story reminiscent of the first rule of writing: “Nothing is as it appears,” I want you to know from the outset I’m not as naïve as I look.

Okay, that’s a lie

But I do know that no matter how many Instagram requests I receive, that’s not the real Liam Neeson who wants to follow me, or the real Keanu Reeves who wants to be my friend.

Because that would be just silly.

Really silly…

(This is where you say, “It’s not them! Move on!”)

So, the ad said, “Small, sweet, gray kitten, free to good home.” I suppose it was our first foray into being pet owners –the precursor to being parents. We made an appointment with the family running the ad and drove out to Cape St. Claire to meet our new offspring. “I love you already,” I thought as we drove to their neighborhood. “Even more so if you are the runt of the litter.” I was born to champion the disadvantaged.

We sat on the plaid sofa in the living room of a middle-class split-level while the patriarch of a somewhat strange clan retrieved the animal advertised. But what came sauntering down the hall in this house full of liars was no sweet gray kitten. It was an enormous striped alley cat with a gun-slinger swagger. This cat was packing heat. Wearing shades and an attitude. Mr. Oliver and I looked at each other and then back at the ringer like we were in the twilight zone. How could what we were expecting be so different from what we found? Where was the disconnect between the ad for the sweet gray kitten and well, Cujo?

But we had come to get a cat—and we were going to leave with a cat. I did not know yet that I’m not good at shifting gears—at letting go of what I am anticipating to embrace a new reality.

So we took this thug home, optimistically naming her “Sweetcakes,” and Cakers was immediately in charge. We were afraid. Very afraid.

She insisted on sleeping at the foot of our bed, the problem being that if either of us moved one bare foot, even an inch, she dove onto the covers, grabbed whatever moved with her claws, fell on her side, legs thrumming, and sunk needle-sharp teeth through the comforter into bare skin till you screamed.

We lay as still as death, trying not to even twitch, but it was inevitable—one of us would move a leg followed by a shriek in the dark and a competitive scramble for safe space under the covers. As reality dawned that she wasn’t going to acclimate – we were slow learners –we decided to banish her by closing the door to the bedroom. But that just made her sit on striped haunches out in the hall and howl.

We lived in Navy Housing, where thin walls between units meant she was keeping others awake, but the hollow interior doors left about an inch of open space at the bottom, so newly inspired, she hunkered down on her side in the hall and stuck huge, hairy arms like salad tongs under the door clawing at the air trying to latch onto us. We’d sit up in bed transfixed, staring at the disembodied forearms like we were watching a horror movie—The Thing was in the hall! The Thing might get under the door at any moment. I have to admit it was a little exciting.

During the day, she caught mice to play with. She’d take them out into the yard and throw them so high in the air even she didn’t see where they landed. And when we got a second cat, a sweet, small, low-IQ stray we named Henry (let’s have another baby, the dopey couple said, the first one didn’t work out so well), she repeatedly sauntered over to the sofa where he lay sleeping, leaped up and sat on him as if he didn’t exist, usually settling down complacently on his dumb little head.

And then we got pregnant. Like—how bad could having a baby be, we said? At least we won’t be afraid of it.

.I’d like to say I’m quicker now to relinquish what I am hoping for when what I find is something different. But I’m not.

I expected to dance, to become an astronomer, a physicist, a healer, to write a bestseller by the age of 30.

I expected to be a better daughter than I was, to live in one house my whole adult life with a white picket fence and a rose trellis—where the family gathered for parental wisdom and homemade baked bread.

I intended to be a perfect mother.

Can you imagine that naivete, Liam Neeson?

Are you shaking your head, Keanu Reeves?

It’s just that it feels as if the possibility of doing better is still an option when so many expectations have been realized. I did have a house with a white picket fence and rose trellis for a time. I never became an astronomer, but I study the stars. I didn’t write a bestseller, but I did publish a book that I wrote from the heart. I didn’t become a physicist, but I am a student of the cosmos, the search for the beginning, and aren’t we all healers?

If time is an illusion unlived potential is, too –reality is still in play–the ending of your story hasn’t been written yet.

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

I was in the wine store the other day not asking for help because I already know that all the least expensive wines are displayed on the lowest shelves so that you have to crouch down near the floor to read those descriptions and prices, which means you are in the way of customers who don’t have to get on the floor to buy wine. You just hunch a shoulder toward the shelf so they can brush past you in the narrow aisle like a tumbleweed on the prairie or boulder in a stream. Balancing on the floor with my purse on one shoulder and a South Moon Under bag in the other hand, I tried not to keel over while reminding myself that the average price Americans pay for a bottle of wine is $12.75.

I was reading wine labels when I found what I was looking for– a “crisp, dry, Sauvignon Blanc with citrusy notes” for $12.99, and walked up to the counter to pay for it. I gave my name to be sure the manager logged the purchase in on my account so that at some point in the future I would qualify for something undefined but good. A whole curated box of holiday wines, perhaps. Or publication of my next book—it doesn’t matter—just the vague promise of accumulating points for a bonus is enough to register every purchase.

The manager looked like my high school friend Jerry Ward, who decided to be a small-town doctor in Vermont at the age of 17 and then, lo and behold, became one. Very cute, with dark curly hair, expressive dark eyes. I thought we were chatting quite amiably when not-Jerry suddenly raised his voice and became very stern.

“Ohhhh no! Not you again!”

I thought he was still talking to me at first. Like he’d suddenly recognized me as that slacker English major who would never earn a discernable income. Startled, I looked up from where I’d been searching for my credit card.

“Oh no, you don’t!” he repeated. “You’re not going to pull this again!”

I realized then that although he was continuing to ring up my wine on autopilot, he was actually looking over my head at someone behind me.

I turned and saw a very scruffy older character who had obviously stuck a bottle of wine down his pants. The top of the bottle protruded from under his shirt above his belt like the creature Sigourney Weaver had to vanquish in Alien.

The man muttered a denial and made no move to extract the bottle from his pants. Only four of us were in the store at the time: me, the manager, a salesclerk, and the thief. We all looked at each other. Pulling the evidence from this man’s pants was a task none of us was willing to perform.

Since he denied the bottle was in there, and we were unwilling to prove it, we were in a kind of a standoff. Encouraged, our shoplifter started edging towards the door in mincing, scuffing baby steps.

Irate, the manager abandoned me and came around the counter. “Stop right there! Sir! You’re not going to get away with this again! You pulled this stunt last week! I’ve got you on camera!” The shoplifter continued to mutter his denial and shuffle toward the door.

I’m having a robbery, I thought, a bit excited at this development in my day.

Like one entity, equally helpless but braver as a unit, the manager, salesclerk, and I all began instinctively moving in a sort of communal shuffle of our own between the thief and the door.

The salesclerk announced loudly, “I’m calling security,” and I stood there while she reported to the authorities that a robbery was in progress. I was still standing there when they didn’t come.

“Good thing no one has a weapon,” I observed quietly to her, then wondered if that was true. What are the conceal/carry laws in Maryland, I wondered? Maybe the guy’s not lying. He’s not stealing wine; he’s stuffed a gun in his pants!

“Let me get you out of here, “the salesclerk whispered to me and quickly completed my purchase as the stalemate continued.

As I walked past the manager in this bizarre standoff, I offered, “Alzheimer’s? Dementia?” The situation was so bizarre that the possibility seemed warranted.

“No way,” the manager said, then added softly, “I’m sorry for this.” His apology felt intimate. Like an intruder had interrupted our family dinner. Or as if the conflict had made us teammates for a moment. Team Right-Side of the Law! Team Right versus Wrong.

Fortunate versus Unfortunate. Us versus Them. I edged on out the door.

I was back in the store a few weeks later—okay, a week later—and reminded the manager that I’d been there during the incident. “What happened?” I asked. “I noticed Security never came.”

“Oh, they came,” he said. “After you left. It was a big deal. He resisted arrest. They got him on a bunch of counts. That guy has been pulling this stunt all over this shopping center. He’s been banned from the entire place for two years.”

“What did you do with the wine down his pants?” I asked, eyeing the bottle I was buying. The manager rolled his eyes, and we laughed about how that bottle was a goner, about all the inadequate ways one might have rehabilitated it. Ha, ha, ha, we laughed together as he slipped my purchase into a bag. I handed not-Jerry a credit card, looked at the bottle I was buying, and wondered, not about wine but about the man who needed to steal it.

About how little space there is–none actually– between us and them.

About what we conceal and what we carry.

 

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.