Home from the Conference,” Bruce Gunther

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.