Friday
Eve slipped off the high stool into an open space between tables. She straightened her spine, bent at the waist 90 degrees, raised her right elbow perpendicular to her body with her fingers pointed at the floor. The other arm was bent like a wing, hand tucked against her side.
Our waitress approached. “What do we have going on here?”
“It’s called the crane,” Eve told her, staying in position. “It’s my pitching stance. I’m hoping to get into the major leagues.”
Paul smiled, genuinely tickled by his wife.
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