I read forty pages of Rustic Ride by Tanya Warring. Glossner Books wants a review from me in the morning. It’s a smooth book about two lesbians who fall in love. There are far too many drinking scenes in the tale, but I enjoy the continuous and layered theme of women with power. Just before eight o’clock, I begin chapter seven, almost halfway through the book, when three taps sound on the front, screen door.
I don’t expect anyone. Not the cowboy from across the street. Not anyone from my family. Not Umby. Not Harold. Not even Kasey. Frankly, I’ve set the evening aside to read, all to myself, just to enjoy Warring’s novel. To answer the door or not answer the door; this is the question that pops inside my head.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Pause.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I guess I better get up off my ass and
