Darcy Wolf couldn't decide whether the view of that one painter hard at work on the ladder scraping the old paint off a second floor window—the one that was so, um, soooo, well, you know—was better with her sunglasses on or off. So she gave herself permission to experiment thoroughly.
On. Off. On. Off.
Still no decision. But lying here in her backyard on a chaise longue with a cold iced tea made just the way she liked it—strong, no sugar, brewed with mint that sprouted reliably in a bed by the house—feeling the sun, light and warm, not yet the blistering full strength of a Milwaukee summer, with virile young men clambering around her childhood five bedroom Lannon stone home, well, she'd say life was good. And not to sound selfish, but she deserved a little "good life" after so many years bearing witness to pain and suffering and despair.
Once the painters were done, she would put the house up for sale and, at age twenty six, finally get her life under way. F ...
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