Head Volunteer   So that was my title — Head Volunteer (little did she know). A labor of love, she assured me, and for payment the sheer   experience should suffice — such leadership was said to be its own reward. Endearments followed, words of gratitude and a nip   at the golden flask while my minder hovered nearby. I wore the sash, the smile, I sipped champagne like someone with nothing to prove.   My duties? I barely remember. Something about the stars, their preferred alignment in their private courses. And no grumbling,   no backing out when it wasn’t fun anymore, though she offered me the crumbs from the high table, a glimpse of the sun   on slow mornings. When she cut off my wine she cautioned me about trying to run away — too late for that, she said. You’re mine.     © Michael Fleming Dummerston, Vermont September 2025