Ewing by Wanda Morrow Clevenger

And when he snatched my arm just as I came near and whirled me around and sat me on his lap―and by the sheer immediacy of this action―and when he said his name, making clear I knew the name was pronounced different from the spelling and that a girl at school had said it wrong to his amusement and to her dismay, I was taken by the intensity of how he made himself known to me;

and it is true I sometime soon stepped into his last name, pronounced correctly, having done the same since I was old enough to ponder the purpose of doing so and found it a good fit with a pleasant lilt―as most surnames before had sounded pleasant when joined with mine.  Embarrassingly romantic, the maddening drive to match jewels to dress to heels to purse; 

and he wasn't a boy and I wasn't a child and I soon realized his presence was important, if not out of reach, as he held back while I danced with others and came and left with others while he kept track of the dancing and coming and going―and his sister told me he was in love with me―and it wasn't until far into this watching that he asked why I had not ever gone with him.  I said, the words roundly formed, You never asked me;

and we had our one date and it failed terribly and maybe this was because I thought I knew what he wanted and he didn't know what I wanted―and we didn't think to see what was showing at the movie theater or say anything important to each other―and out of the context of dancing and drinking neither of us knew what we really wanted beyond the snatching and sheer immediacy of this action;

and I could have happily paired with his last name, the one when spoken correctly possessed a light lilt, had the timing been different, had we each been someway different. 

wanda morrow clevenger © 2011

This Same Small Town In Each of Us

by Wanda Morrow Clevenger

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