Slow, No Wake
by, J. R. Nichols
The girls and I were enjoying a peaceful day at the beach when he showed up. Ever the hero, he launched his daughters into the water from sunburned shoulders, and allowed them to bury him in the sand. Meanwhile, I struggled to turn sandwiches for three into lunch for four.
He ran over, kicking sand onto my blanket, and grabbed a sandwich.
“No mustard? I can’t believe you, Helen.”
He sat, facing the water, his back to me. I glanced down at the plastic knife in my hand, and struggled against the urge to jam it between his shoulder blades.
