CHRISTY G THOMAS
MINUTE Susan delicately pinned up a last strand of hair into the cluster of rosettes at the back of her head. After so many years and so many mornings, she could finish her hair in less than twenty minutes. At precisely 7:15, she sat at her kitchen table, scraping up the last bits of one poached egg, one slice of dry rye toast, and one-half cup of cottage cheese. Eyed her watch. Checked it against her ear to make sure it was still ticking. Patted her carefully lined lips. Smudges of dusty mauve speckled her napkin. “Well,” she sighed to the wallpaper, “time to get going.” She locked up her two bedroom cottage. Turned the key – one, two, three times, a shiny clutch under her arm. One-two-three-one-two-three – she numbered her waltzing pace, metronome legs swinging down the walkway. “Daisy” – her ‘88 Plymouth Horizon, powder blue – waited in the driveway like a sleeping housecat curled up in the morning light. Daisy had been in Susan’s life since high school, and as she started its engine, she smiled at the car’s predictable purr. “If there is one thing I’ve learned,” she glanced back and forth between the road in front of her and the rearview mirror, “is to take things in stride and overwhelming grace. I’d like to thank the few who 103
