"After, sweaty and spent and a little bit sore, I snuggled as close to Keith's big warm body as I could without becoming a tattoo on his chest. Being with Keith again was sweeter than ever. I could hardly hold him tightly enough, kiss him deeply enough. My heart beat the drum line to "Doo Wah Diddy Diddy." My veins ran melted butter. I couldn't stop smiling. I was home."
"Maybe I had no right to be surprised when, one October Saturday morning (as I was frying eight slices of bacon for breakfast, feeling as contented as a Carnation cow), an orange juice glass fell (or perhaps was pushed) to its demise on the kitchen floor. . . ."
The eggs aren't all "sunny side up" this go around. Chapter 57 of Larry Duplechan's Eight Days A Week: