Love and Other Four-Letter Words Read Online Free PDF

my paper plate out there and sit cross-legged on the cement floor, quietly watching her. I would feel this swelling inside as she leaped around, splashing colorful strokes, almost like a dancer. Several times, Mom would abandon the canvasbefore it was finished, descending into a funk until it mysteriously disappeared from the garage.
What's the use?
she'd responded gloomily when I inquired about the whereabouts of one I particularly liked: orange figures dancing in concentric circles around a purple sun.
Where's it going to get me, anyway?
    I think Mom blames Dad for taking her away from the urban scene and plunking her in Small Town, USA. Not that Ithaca isn't artsy; compared to neighboring communities, it's the cultural capital of the world. But it's not exactly where you come to make a name for yourself or connect with other painters. That was a recurring theme in Mom and Dad's arguments. Usually to the tune of Mom itching to leave Ithaca as soon as I go away to college. And Dad suggesting they start traveling more instead, that with the way things are going in academia, he couldn't risk walking out on Cornell.
    I'll be the first to admit that Mom and Dad weren't hunky-dory, not for the past year or so. I guess I'd been hoping the sabbatical in California would jump-start things, with Dad researching a book on John Steinbeck and Mom looking into studios that provided live models. Hell, I'd even convinced myself that I could benefit from a change of scenery.
    But this wasn't how it was supposed to happen, with Mom and the movers bickering about breakables, andMoxie bounding around the house until I tied her in the backyard with a bowl of fresh water. Even though I'd applied two layers of deodorant, my underarms were already sweaty.
    In the midst of everything the doorbell rang. It was the realtor, coming to pick up our house keys. Well, guess who arranged to drop them off at her agency on our way out of town. And guess who thought to call the cleaning service, requesting they come tomorrow morning rather than this afternoon. Definitely not the Unmade Bed!

     
    “At least we're heading east.” Mom set her sunglasses on the dashboard. The sun was beginning its descent into the hills of southern New York.
    I readjusted the radio. We'd only been on the road a hundred miles and this was the third time I'd had to locate a decent station.
    “Because I'd hate to drive into the afternoon sun …”
    Mom had been making intermittent comments for the whole trip, even though I was barely responding. I just didn't feel like gabbing as if it were any other day. Especially when we were pulling out of Ithaca. As I'd watched the familiar sights fade away, I'd wondered if Dad had felt a similar emptiness the morning Momdrove him to the airport. But then I'd pushed that thought out of my mind. After all, he'd made that bed for himself and now he was soundly sleeping in it.
    “Do you think Moxie is okay?” Mom asked after several minutes. “Maybe we should stop at the next rest area.”
    I glanced back at Moxie, whose head was resting on her front paws. Her real name is Amoxicillin because Dad brought her to me when I was nine and had strep throat. But after explaining to the thousandth person why she was named after an antibiotic, we shortened it to Moxie, which is easier to holler across a park anyway.
    A few miles later, Mom gestured to a gas station off to the right. “I'm going to stop here.”
    I didn't respond as she pulled up to the pump and shut off the engine.
    “Look.” Mom glanced sideways at me. “I'm going through a lot too.”
    As I unbuckled my seat belt, Mom clamped her hand over mine.
    “All I ask is that you act civil.”
    I hopped out of the car. As Moxie bounded toward the Dumpsters, I slammed my door a lot harder than necessary.
    Act civil, act civil.
I stewed, pacing around the pavement.When haven't I acted civil? Would someone please tell me the crime in wanting silence for a few hours? Out of the corner of