dzgnboy
The Confirmation
The red blouse was new; she’d brought it to the counter last week at the end of forty minutes’ deliberation, swayed at last by the feel of the heavy cloth between her fingers and the glint of the beads, so bold and sparkly even under the fluorescent lights of the shop.
She never wore red, really—deep burgundy, maybe, but not blood red the color of lipstick and daring. The blouse matched the leather strap on his watch, though, and she thought it would be a playful act of coordination, a subtle harmony at the dinner table when they went out to celebrate his last day of work and the beginning of their golden years together after so many spent toiling separately.
She knew by the bottom of the bottle of wine they ordered to share (but only he drank) that the blouse hadn’t changed anything.
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