ONE MORE THING.
Maybe she should stop at the outlet mall, on the way out of town. It wouldn’t put her too far behind. If she hurries. She pictures her to-do list. A scrap of paper clipped inside her planner. Half the items still not crossed off. All the things she thought she would need for the conference. A ten-day writer’s workshop in Vermont. She still can’t believe she got in.
She fretted over it, whether she was ready. Her writing had been a private act, while the children were young. But now, she thinks of posting a selfie on Facebook with the tag, “Pinch Me.” But that’s too boastful. She won’t post. Going is what matters. She doesn’t need anyone to know. The seemingly impossible feat was leaving.
Her tires rolled away from the house, the children waving from the porch. David smiled, his arm around Sally’s back. Lucy on her own, hair fluttering, gave a weak smile. The dog perched there, too, wagging her tail. Even the leaves seemed to say goodbye, as her car pulled out. Strange to be the one going away, this time.
On the highway, the car picks up speed. The needle rises from seventy towards eighty. It feels like fleeing. The thought thumps like a footfall outside the door at night. Of course, she’s not. Still, she presses on the gas, as if some long-stretched arm might reach out and take her back. A rock in a slingshot, misfired.
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Angel’s work has been published in various journals, including Still — The Journal, Appalachian Review, Full Grown People, Poets Writing the News, Literary Mama and Edible Blue Ridge. She has won awards from Writer’s Digest, Glimmer Train, Berea College and the Faulkner Wisdom Contest.
Her novel-in-progress is represented by Dystal, Goderich & BourretRepresented by: Dystal, Goderich & Bourret
