She was very thin, and she had a nervous intensity about her that could be felt when she walked into a room. “Where’s my book?” she asked.
Her husband was a large man, given to slow, placid gestures. “Over there,” he said without looking up from his newspaper.
She glanced at the coffee table. “Well, you could have said, ‘It’s on the coffee table.’ That might’ve helped.”
“And leave you nothing to fuss about?” He smiled into the newspaper.
She picked up the book and tossed it back onto the table. “I wasn’t really looking for it anyway,” she said. She sat down with a frown, picking up her knitting needles. Then she grinned. “I’ll bet you forgot you put the dog out an hour ago.”
“Oh god!” he said leaping up. “I hope he hasn’t wandered too far.” He hurried out the door and was gone for twenty minutes.
Copyright 2013 George Lowell Tollefson