Orrin
i’ve a 52:05
Chubber cheeks. Cheeks like the soft pale eggs of Asian ducks. Cheeks that should float above the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Cheeks whose welcome gravity draws down your own cheek with a sort of tender inevitability.
And eyes. And little bulge of chin. And tiny, momentarily unslobbered, mouth. And oh god oh god oh god a nose too small to function as a nose, but centered so deadly cute in the middle of that face.
I do not do ‘cute.’ I do not, dammit, write about babies. What have you done to me? What have I done to you that you make me write the words chubber cheeks? How is it possible that this wintry day suddenly feels like a bowl of sun-warmed plums?
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