Darlene sipped her coffee, watching the pages of the newspaper flip back and forth. Brad sat somewhere behind them, oblivious to everything else – including her. Every morning started out the same way. He’d grab the sports section and hide behind it until 8:00. At 8:01, he’d peck her on the cheek and race off to his photography studio.
I know he’s cheating on me. The late-night studio sessions, the client dinners – he must think I’m stupid. Darlene knew who his clients were; she handled the books for the studio, saw the proofs for their photography sessions. She ought to divorce him, but that would be the easy way out for Brad. He’d probably thank her.
At 8:02, she scooped up the newspaper. The headline screamed ‘Black Ribbon Killer strikes again!’ in bold print. Tabloid journalism at its best. She tossed the pages into the recycle bin. She didn’t need to read the lurid details. She ought to stop delivery of the paper altogether. Let him get his sports fix online and quit wasting trees.
Brad called from the studio midday. “I’ve got another client dinner tonight. Sorry. I’ll stop at the store on the way home though. I picked up the grocery list on my way out this morning. Is there anything else we need besides coffee and bread?”
“Yes. Would you pick up a package of black ribbon? It’s over in the notions section.”
