Home from the Conference Bruce Gunther My wife kisses my neck as we sit down for dinner. Her hands brush mine as we talk, calmed by our red wine. I discuss my business trip, the monotonous seminars, the heat of the Western city. She asks if I missed her and speaks of the loneliness of the house when I’m gone. About how the garden needed rain, and what a neighbor told her about someone in the house three doors down. We chew our slices of apple pie— served with vanilla ice cream— and I tell her how much I enjoyed the wine, dinner, and dessert. Only later, when we read by lamplight in our separate chairs, will I ask about another man’s credit card, which must have fallen from his wallet and under the bed, but not quite all the way.
Still Life 2020
47
