Fork lightning. Thunderclap! Cloud- burst. Crack! The bloody egg missed the blender, slithering down the cabinet front, pooling onto the floor. Maris stamped her foot. Damn! Damn! There went breakfast. One little egg. One huge mess. Clean up frustrating, madly elusive like quicksilver. Monday morning, May the 6th, Jim’s D-Day. Full moon. Ugh! Wouldn’t you know.
On the seventh, no – eighth Bounty towel, the phone rang. Racing pulse. Was he back? Maris froze.
On the fourth ring. “Hello?”
Click.
Nerves like a heartbeat, pelting like the rain. Stomach like a fist, rousing dark, dank thoughts. Why spring, and not fall, spelled death. Last year (’73) the Connie break-up. This year, Gram’s long, painful death; Jim’s cliff-hanger. Gut-sucking.
Seven thirty-five. Hurry. Seven fifty-one. Out the door, cross the hall, down the stairs. R-i-n-g-R-i-n-g. . .Her phone? R-i-n-g-R-i-n-g. . .Yes! R-i-n-g-R-i-n-g. . . Back up on the double. Key in lock. Too late. Breathless. Oh, for the serenity of last October. . .