By Chelsea Laine Wells
Your daughter wants you to scratch her back while she falls asleep. She calls you from the other room, her voice high and irritating and swooping down into petulance. Come scratch my back. Your husband holds up his hand like a claw and flexes it, indicating that his fingernails are too short, and smiles at you in that porpoise way he has that makes you wonder if he isn’t mildly afflicted with Down’s Syndrome. You push your exhausted body off the couch and move deeper into the small, dull apartment to appease the voice. (more…)