. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . where ImagInatIon comes to play

Sunday, 16 November 2008


part xi:
When Michael returned from his team's weekly curling game, Marjory greeted him with an ear to ear smile. Hi honey, she called, how was the match?

Game, Marjory.

What game?

‘How was the game’, is what you meant to ask, right?

When Marjory started to cry then, Michael felt like a heel for correcting her. He wished she understood the difference between a match and a game by now, but he sure hadn’t meant to make her cry.

Michael stood without moving so much as a toe in her direction. He just stared at her, as if waiting for instructions on what he should do next. Twenty-six years of marriage and he still felt like an awkward boy around Marjory's tears. They were a rare occurence, true, but Michael knew he had come to rely on her strength.

He should do something, he thought to himself. His right foot left the ground when a quick rap was heard at the door.

Hello! It's just me! Peter’s voice bellowed from the breezeway.


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