(A Post Card Story: must fit on the back of a postcard)
“I don’t like surprises” she told him. “I like my life to be predictable.” Her mind was filled with visions of alphabetized spice cabinets, labels facing forward, shelves with books carefully placed by size and subject, drawers filled with folded socks, each wedded to its mate, turned once and lined up, toes facing the same direction.
“I understand, I promise” he nodded and kissed her. His mind was filled with visions of her hair flowing behind her as they ran hand in hand down a beach, splashing in the waves of the turquoise sea, sheets tangled around legs as they caught their breath after an afternoon of making love, sipping wine and watching a sunset with shoulders touching, sitting together on the wooden porch of a cabin in the woods, steaming cups of coffee balanced on the arms of the wooden rockers.
They were wed. Each day passed.
Thirty years later, she stood on the concrete stoop of the house in the suburbs, pulling her key from her purse she unlocked the door. This has been a long day and I’m tired. Her mind was filled with visions of the stacks of files left on the desk at the office, piles of dishes in the sink, laundry, clean but heaped on the couch waiting to be folded. She pushed open the door.
“Surprise” the house full of people shouted and cheered, as he came toward her, arms reaching out, stupid grin upon his face. “Are you surprised?” he asked.
“You promised” she said. Turning she walked down the concrete steps, hitching the strap of her purse up onto her shoulder, leaving him forever.
Whew! Heavy duty response!
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