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Stutter By Kathy Fish On her 40th birthday she marries a linguist. The ceremony is a simple one, held under a willow tree. Later, they sit on the grass in their wedding clothes and eat chunks of mango from new china bowls. The linguist watches her jaw line as she speaks. Her father died young. She remembers the disk of onyx he wore on a chain around his neck. She remembers this, but can't recall the color of his eyes. He made her a broomstick pony for a birthday present. She has it still. The linguist touches her throat. He tells her she must have Armenian blood in her background. He knows by the movement of her mandible. He is twenty-eight years old. He asks her to grant him the favor of a dance. She laughs and he takes her hand. "I like it this way," she says. They stand under the tree, safe from the strange, stuttering rain.

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