by Joan Bauer
“Don’t,” I ordered, “even think about it, kid!”
He threw the mudball at a pigeon. I brushed myself off. Photography is a dangerous passion, not for the fainthearted.
I started running again and the ooze kept dripping as Jonathan fluttered in the deep places of my heart. I was flying by the seat of my designer jeans; Stieglitz was at my heels. I passed a really cute guy in a metallic-blue jacket and gave him only a fleeting glance because there’s a lot more to life than genetic perfection. A blue mist broke through the gray sky, unleashing streams of pure sunshine, and I knew that Jonathan was watching me. He was there like a little sunbeam brightening everything I did.
I flopped on the steps of Petrocelli’s Poultry and lifted my face to the warm, filtered light.
Maturity sure has its moments.
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Books by
JOAN BAUER
Backwater
Best Foot Forward
Hope Was Here
Rules of the Road
Squashed
Stand Tall
Sticks
Thwonk
