There once was a glassblower who lived by the sea. In the daring years of his youth, the glassblower would pull all kinds of strange and wonderful shapes from out of colored glass. He blew neon spires ... [+]
David Drury lives in Seattle, Washington. His fiction has been broadcast on National Public Radio, published in Best American Nonrequired Reading, ZYZZYVA and elsewhere. He has a master's degree in Christian Studies and been kicked out of every casino in Las Vegas. Read more at daviddruryauthor.com.
Thank you for your complete attention. This announcement comes to you by way of my publicist, by way of proofreading interns, by way of my divorce lawyer, by way of two editors on opposite sides of the globe who were available on a Saturday, by way of three trusted writers I have never met, by way of my vacationing agent, by way of my personal assistant who has a nasty cold but took dictation from the far side of my kitchen while I eskimo-kissed my yorkie and waited for the body-sculpting tea to steep—all this by way of my unfiltered, maverick benevolent heart.
My Domestic Life Collaborator and I are separating. Think of it as the exact opposite—we are merely and mutually fusing into a bigger version of ourselves. We are two astronauts tumbling in opposite directions after the ship exploded (due to unfaithfulness). Hands joined, arms like bungies, we drift decisively toward new adventures and away from quantifiable togetherness. Our nannies will attest we are already better parents for it. A rising tide lifts all boats. An even bigger rising tide carries those boats inland and deposits them in a playground or smashes them through the wall of a homeless shelter. Nevertheless, my fans have no need to worry. My yacht is insured.