Shaken by the idea of taking advantage,
yet not enough to resist telling him what he
wanted to hear, she knew the lie would remain,
lightly folded and slightly threadbare
from wear and tear, in her lingerie drawer
for years.
Who would not agree that happiness is more important than an engagement ring under your pale yellow, satin-encased pillow?
On Sunday afternoon, at her mother's
dinner, someone was asking questions.
Immediately, she gathered her cashmere
coat and private concerns, tied a silk
scarf around her neck, and said her
goodbyes.
An hour afterwards, in a bleak,
fifth-floor hallway, a certain detective presents a hawk-nosed investigator
with the list of times and dates, then
sits, tipped back in his arthritic
desk-chair, and worries.
The payments on the incandescent
diamond ring--which he turns over and over
in his right hand--are only half-finished, and their train will be departing
(whether she's married or not)
at half-past-six.
(c) by Hannah Six
No comments:
Post a Comment