I assumed that the larger scar was from shrapnel. As he went into the kitchen and made coffee, I shuddered at the intimacy and promise of the moment. ...I smell brandy. You want coffee to go with that?" He lowered his head so that I could see his face underneath the kitchen cabinets. His smile was brilliant, his hair frizzy. He looked cute. "Please." And then I could smell him, too. He'd splashed on something very exotic and masculine. Did he want to encourage his seduction? I wondered. He poured. The image itself made me miss my school friends, most of who still live in a small town thousands of miles away from Chicago where I had moved when I began college never to return. It made me miss my mom, who had since remarried for the third time, my ex-step dad George and his quiet kindness, my sisters Hope and Alison, who were always in my hair and on my case, feeling that the simple fact of being older than me allowed them to do so. As I started college, I again made use of my diary,. More

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