by Jack Kerley
“What?” I said.
“We can’t be doing this, Carson. We just can’t.”
“Tell me why.”
“First off, I’m forty-four, you’re…you’re—”
I put my finger over her lips and smiled. “I’m thirty-three, Clair. Forty-four and thirty-three. That adds up to, what? Seventy-seven. Which averages out to, uh, help me here…”
“Thirty-eight and some.”
I said, “So what’s your gripe against two thirty-eight-year-olds kissing?”
I waited for her answer.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have a fondness for hanging out and yapping, finding similarly inclined beings at every turn, drawing scenes and stories from our ramblings. To quickly acknowledge a few of these inspirational folks…
The Six A.M. Thursday Morning socio-politico-religio discussion group and kaffeegargle: Steve Burke, Andy Hartzell, Roger Peterman, and Rick Rafferty. Camaraderie combined with the mesh and clash of ideas; what a way to wake up.
My good friend and neighbor in Fairhope, Alabama: Gerard Lawson, who keeps me abreast of local happenings when I’m home in Kentucky. Just up the highway are Bill and Toni Riales; thanks for the great food and conversation, guys. I can’t forget Captain Bobby Abruscato, Dolphin Island fishing guide and storyteller deluxe.
Sandy Caroll and Mike Whitehead, who fill my kitchen with words and music.
My children, with whom I can discuss anything from philosophy to the lyrics of Green Day.
On the “bidness” side, the Dutton folks: Brian Tart, who helps point the way, and Neil Gordon, who keeps everything flowing.
All the folks at the Aaron Priest Literary Agency, especially Aaron, who’s not shy about saying, “This isn’t working, Jack. Try something else.”
My wife, Elaine, who told me to get my hindquarters out of advertising and write novels.
