Mystery Woman PGallaher

My husband is coming to terms with the situation. I can see it in the beam of his flashlight, a half-hearted movement of light that was so purposeful in the beginning. I can hear it in his voice. He’s losing hope.             It’s the middle of the night, and our old dog is lost in the woods.             Ink Spot is fourteen-and-a-half years old. She doesn’t hear or see well, and arthritis has taken its toll on her hind legs. She’s apt to topple over, mid-squat. The noise she makes is more like a moose than a bark. My husband tried to reassure me when we first missed her, pointing out that Ink Spot is too crippled to go far, but that was two hours ago.             Our house is on top of a hill at the end of a steep, winding driveway, a quarter of a mile long. We have four acres of land, most of it wooded. From one ...

The sun is spilling gold around her But he's texting. She might offer a smile that would make him sizzle like an electric wire They might talk go for coffee see a movie take a walk on a path that winds through snow like confectioners sugar frosting He might pull her into the warm crook of his arm But he's texting. They might get married have four children, one who would discover a cure for the most vicious disease of the century They might sleep bodies entwined every night for sixty glorious years And waking every morning, he might see or believe he still sees the girl with sunlight spilling gold around her But he's texting. pgallaher@copyright 2019 Published in Tetrahedra www.phyllisgobbell.com