From my new short story "Perspective" -- comments welcomed: “Is this the Hardesty residence?” A male voice, unfamiliar. “I’m calling for Mark Hardesty.” “This is he.” “Mark…” hesitant, he began once more. “Mark, this is Charles Wharton. You know, Sandra’s husband.” Of course I knew. Five years ago he’d taken Sandy Calloway from me, married her, moved away. Sandra he always called her, never Sandy, the only person besides her mother who did. “Yes,” my response cold. “I remember. Charles Wharton, Detroit.” “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news,” his voice was tentative, halting. Again I waited, then heard what I absolutely knew would be next. “Sandra’s gone. She died, passed away last month.” Locked within a fugue, my consciousness was blinded by flashes of remembrance that not only illuminated my present lonely condition but lit up whole galleries of the past, bright and sharply focused, precious moments of when I had been with Sandy. An instant gestalt of memory flooded into my dry heart, washed over me. Then it was gone and I was once more standing in my bachelor kitchen in my bachelor apartment and in my bachelor life, holding the phone and starting to cry.
Posted on: Tue, 27 Aug 2013 05:00:04 +0000