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I did it, I thought as I slid into the warm bath water and gulped my cold white wine. For six months I’d tried to mend my marriage to Eyeball, but one person can’t fix a broken relationship. Tired of working on a two-person project alone, I’d asked Buster Traywick, my attorney, to file the papers for my divorce today.
Lemon Drop, my little white mutt, put her front paws on the side of the tub. I scratched her head while she licked the water that dripped off my fingers. The wine and soothing bath were doing what I’d thought nothing would do that night, making me sleepy. I closed my eyes and drifted off.
A bark stirred me enough to take another sip of wine, but Lemon Drop’s a yip dog. I shushed and petted her, for all the good it ever did. She ducked out from under my hand and ran from the bathroom, yapping as if a herd of kittens had moved in.
The house rocked as an explosion tore through it. Bath water sloshed out in the floor. A couple of candles fell off the counter, one in the tub, the other on the bath mat, which began to smolder. I dropped my wine glass in the tub with the candle, jumped out of the bath and threw the smoldering rug into the mix. I pulled on my robe and ran dripping through the bedroom and down the hall. "Lemon Drop!"
My feet slipped on the wood floor as I tried to stop myself from running into the living room sofa that for some reason blocked the hallway. I tumbled over the side of the couch, breathed in a lungful of drywall dust that covered the cushions and banged my head on the hall light fixture that sat in the center of the sofa, which was not where I’d left it.
I looked to my right and found the reason. The wall separating the living room from the hall was gone. Jagged drywall and electrical wires hung in the empty space. A 1951 Chevy pickup I recognized as Sophie Trucker, its headlights shining in my eyes, its wide gold grill grinning at me, rested with its front half in my living room and its back half outside on the porch.
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