By John R. Greenwood
She knows one trip is never enough for me. She knows the man she married will be back. He will forget his phone. He will forget his lunch. She knows after forty years of the same routine he will be back for something. Sometimes she smiles lovingly and cracks open the back door, “What is it today?” It’s turned into a wife’s early morning roll of the dice, “To Lock or Not To Lock”. It’s cold outside, there’s more to forget: gloves, a hat, an extra sleeve of Cinnamon Pop Tarts. She calculates the odds on her 'how many times has he done that before' husband-computer.
Today I mog back to the house one more time, head face down, to get my prox-card. I reach for the handle with the same anticipation as scraping a $2.00 scratch-off.
I hear the weather forecast as it drifts from the bedroom. I pause briefly waiting for a sarcastic comment about my absent-mindedness to follow, but it there is none.
"Thank you for leaving the door open, I forgot my prox-card."
"I know Honey."
"It's on the counter."