By Gregory Keith
Copyright 2011 Gregory Keith
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He called Barbara.
She had been Ann’s best friend.
He had promised to call her two days ago.
After the second ring and no answer, he corrected the position of the silver pen at which he had been absently staring, wondering how it had gotten out of place all by itself. He nudged it back into alignment to the notepad’s edge on the den’s black, glass-topped desk, and then rose from his seat. Phone cupped to his ear, he headed away from the haloed reach of the crane-neck halogen lamp, aimlessly across the darkened room to the window where he parted the closed drapes, peeked down to the city’s night street traffic, seven stories below, and then up to the blank, poker-faced black sky. Deciding she had given up on him, he mulled over the message he would leave. His words had to be right. Middle age, the experience of seven years of marriage had not made explaining himself to women any easier than it had been at eighteen.