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The sun’s going down soft and slow behind Tiptree Ridge, silhouetting its willowy wind turbines, but the view’s not quite right. Vivian doesn’t realize she’s fidgeting until Auntie Dot looks over, her beautiful old face lit from below by the glow of her battered old tablet, and raises one baleful eyebrow.
“That ain’t a rocking chair,” she says. “And will not become one, no matter how you may squirm in it.”
Vivian finally notices her own shuffling feet, hears the rustling fabric of her camping chair, but her auntie’s still petty as all hell for remarking on it. “Lord, can’t a body move her body once in a while?” she demands.
“You could move it all the way back to your porch,” Auntie Dot says, “... Read more
