My Cardboard Balcony

Ninety Degrees by Belinda Roddie No day should be a right angle, because nothing is remotely correct about one o'clock when it's too warm to even walk, and every limb becomes lethargic, and even barbecuing burgers becomes a chore. Give me seventy degrees, give me eighty - an acute angle is perfect. And if you dare go obtuse on me, I will swat you with a swimming pool noodle.

There could have been a higher reason for it. Some secret message, telling me how and when and why things were meant to happen. Call it God's will. Call it Satan's wrath. Call it any of the gods' trickeries in between. In the end, scientifically, it could be explained in one way: It couldn't be helped. It killed me to know he was gone, but I wasn't going to let the death slow me down.