When I was eight, however, all I really knew for sure was that I didn’t like any of [the Rice family.] That and I was completely terrified of Mr. Rice, even before the afternoon when he pulled his gun on me, and pressed its barrel to my temple.
It is their second date, and already she loves his imperfect hand.
Father Time didn’t forget, though. Father Time remembered and he waited, patient and perfectly content. Father Time knows he need not chase us, ever. Sooner or later we all circle back to him. Of all the old gods, he is the one to which all our bodies are ultimately sacrificed. Me, you, our parents and children; Olympian athletes and ivory-tower intellects; the oldest living woman and the babe born still; all the world’s prophets and their gods alike — it doesn’t really matter. In the end, we are all Time’s bitch.