She turned the card over in her hand, white and thick with a computer generated swirly font. Nothing much. ‘Hmmm…couldn’t write it out by hand, it seems’, she murmured. She opened it up, scanned it quickly, reading a rather vague message about celebrating anniversaries and such…the nuances of the marriage, married life and the passing of years and so forth.
She folded it over and placed it in her lap. She leaned back in the chair, resting her head against the cushion. Indistinct notes of liquid jazz echoed from somewhere on this slow summer morning and she could not identify the tune…just that steady stream of a well worn song pulling one through the experience…a thousand late night dinners and clinking glasses…July twilight on Park Avenue. It had all been done before, but comfortable pleasure of it came from knowing just that. ‘Don’t get around much anymore’…the notes faded as someone closed a window.
She returned to the card dilemma. ‘I don’t like the woman. Never did’. She said the words out loud and it startled her. The woman had not done anything to her. She was simply there. Her husband, on the other hand was opinionated, controlling…gave off an air of arrogance. That was something else. But the woman hadn’t really done anything…other than be attached to him. Ah…the attachment was the problem.
A mourning dove cooed and disappeared into thick green leaves. The porch was starting to heat up. She had made her decision. She stood up and went back into the house, tossing the card in the kitchen trash bin. That card was not going in the scrapbook…
690 Saint Paul 