Someone lights up two tables down. Kools. Their peculiar scent never fails to transport me back to her musty old house on Ventnor Terrace. My mother would leave us there for a week each summer. I can’t say we were difficult children, but I suppose she was entitled to a break.
We spent our summer vacations at the beach. There were carnival rides at the end of the boardwalk, back behind Marty’s Playland. At night we skulked around in the blinking electric light with fistfuls of tickets, crushing peanut shells and cardboard cotton candy centers under our flip flops as we…
Somewhere deep inside of me I thought, “I should have been a clown.”
I’m the mosquito fluttering against the glass, long legs dangling uselessly behind me.
He was wearing camouflage shorts. I could guess where his other leg ended up.