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{Contrary to what initial reactions to this image might indicate, this not a story about cleavage (not even Muppet cleavage–though that would’ve  made a great story) or butts, or even nuts. It is mostly true, however–a sort of confluence of conversations. My intention wasn’t to write weekly conversations between nameless individuals but these two first stories sort of evolved that way. Next week’s will be different.}

Farm Fresh Eggs

“He was the best dog we ever had,” he said, shaking his head slightly at the memory. He looked over at his wife, who nodded in agreement.

“We wouldn’t have found him if you didn’t ask me to get you some farm fresh eggs,” he added, the lines deepening around his blue eyes as one side of his mouth upturned very slightly.

His wife’s head jerked upward, her eyes wide as she studied his face for a moment. Then she shook her head, waving her hand at him dismissively, Sicilian style.

“Don’t you remember?” he asked. “It was the late ’60s and we’d just moved out of the city. We went for a drive, and you said you wanted to get some farm fresh eggs.”

“Get outta here!” she said, laughing in the sort of contagious way that gets other people laughing, too. Their party guests were no exception. Her laughter was mixed with wheezing coming from deep within her chest, and after a while, she began to cough.

“I grew up in the city,” she said, finally catching her breath. “When the shit have I ever asked you for farm fresh eggs?”

“You did,” he said, folding his arms over his chest and nodding curtly, closing his eyes briefly as he did.

“You insisted upon them,” he continued. “We passed a farm that had a sign that read, “Puppies For Sale” and we stopped. That’s when we got Sloopy. He was a Collie/Shepherd and the best dog we ever had besides my Trixie growing up in Smoke Run,” he said.

She muttered to herself about farm fresh eggs, wiping tears from her eyes as her body shook with laughter once more.

“Remember how Sloopy used to take my socks off with his teeth?” he asked. “He’d never once touch my feet.”

“Thanks for the visual, Dad,” deadpanned a woman walking past the entry to the living room. “He’s telling the Farm Fresh Eggs story again, you guys,” she called to people in another part of the house.

“I remember how he’d goose step around his own turds when he went out to pee. He hated getting his paws messy,” said his wife.

“I still miss that dog,” he said, shaking his head again.

“We had to give him up because of your crazy mother,” she said. “He went for her after she hit him with her purse one too many times, yelling, ‘Outside! Dogs belong outside!’”

“She grew up on a farm and lived in the country,” he said. “That’s all she knew. In her mind, animals lived outside, never in a house.”

“In her mind, it was like a cuckoo clock. She also tried to smash the TV with a hammer when she heard the word ‘Philadelphia’ on the news,” she replied. “Crazy.”

“My sister Mary went to Philadelphia to get married, then came home with TB and died,” he said. “I remember her asking me to bring her a glass of water, and when I did, her eyes were still open but she was gone,” he said.

“Yeah, so she blamed Philadelphia for killing her daughter,” she said. “Couldn’t speak a word of English, but remembered ‘Philadelphia,’ the looney tune.”

“And she knew the word ‘Exit,’ too,” he said. “Kept running away from the nursing home every time she saw an Exit sign.”

“One time Sloopy chased the mailman up a light pole. There was mail all over the front lawn,” she said, spreading her hands outward like a blackjack dealer. Her hair, once golden blonde, was salt and pepper gray now, but the thing that had always been most beautiful about her remained so: her mossy green eyes.

“He was a good dog,” he said, smiling again at the memory.

“Yes, he was,” she agreed, smiling back.

“And we never did find those eggs,” he said, his eyes twinkling as she laughed, saying, “Get outta here!” and waving her hand at him again.

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