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  • I want to be in a band. I want to be that wild-eyed messy-haired singing woman in the sweet flowered dress and beat up cowboy boots. You could just as easily see me on the front porch, sweeping the day away and gently swatting the child from my skirt. In the band, I would sing harmonies and play the fiddle and during the big exciting parts of the song, I would jump up and down to the beat you didn't even know was there until you saw me jumping. Afterward, folks would buy me whiskey shots and circle around me without even saying a word. Moths to a flame.

    Val and I talked yesterday about how probably I should go to bartending school so I can tend bar in Marfa, Texas. I would wear tight scoop-necked t-shirts and boots with my jeans. Folks would tell me all of their secrets while I wiped the glasses. I would name drinks after the tourists I took home with me. Drive a beat up worn down pickup, red or orange. And there would be dust on my skin everyday.

    There's a house for rent somewhere in this town, a brick one-bedroom on an acre plus of undeveloped land. That is my house. The fireplace right in the middle of the room and the sun through all the windows. I'll sit on the back deck in the early mornings and toss apples for the deer in the yard. Watch the sun go up and down, up and down.
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