by Kenneth Pobo

After we broke up, Donald met a reporter he married in Madrid, had three kids. For years I'd get Christmas cards, "Hope you had a great year and were in many plays, Donald." I did some plays, won no Tony's, had a good face. Remember

the Tulli gum girl in the late 70s? That's me! "A blast of hoocheekoo/ in every chew." That gig lasted almost five years. I almost married Troy. Daddy, wheelchair-bound in the Friendly Waters Retirement Community since mom died, freaked.

"You won't marry that black guy. I'll die first." I might've married him, but marriage felt like a show that closed after a dozen performances. The empty theatre, wickets shut. Sexually, I like women better,

maybe. Some women. Men often rush, like I'm a station they're channel surfing through on the way to see the Giants snuff the Packers. Not Donald. Considerate, he probably wearied of my good girl schtick, didn't lay me

for our first five years. Heavy petting, yes. Acting took me everywhere from L.A. to London, kept us apart. Now I'm in, get this, Ft. Wayne, Indiana, left overpriced New York. I do local plays, play old grans. This week

I'm performing Nanny in The Effect of Gamma Rays. Each night I drive back to my ranch house, sing along with old songs, the Fifth Dimension my favorite group—the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. Lights out.

Kenneth Pobo teaches Creative Writing and English at Widener University in Pennsylvania. His new book, Glass Garden, came out in 2008 from WordTech Press. He does a radio show, "Obscure Oldies," on Saturdays from 6–8pm EDT at WDNR.com.