Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
He was building a history, block by block, out of ordinary afternoons and harmless moments of silence.
He was setting a trap, and the paper in my hands was the lock.
I closed the black diary and placed it back into the bottom drawer, sliding the heavy wood shut until it met the back of the desk.
I stood up, my knees stiff from kneeling on the floor.
I looked around the quiet room, at the framed medical degrees on the wall, and realized how little of my life actually belonged to me.
I walked to the door and stepped out into the hallway.
Locking the office door behind me, making sure the brass bolt clicked back into its silent alignment.
I walked down the stairs to carve the chicken, my fingers stiff against the handle of the carving knife.
David was already seated at the dining table, folding his linen napkin across his lap with his usual deliberate precision.
The dining room was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator in the next room and the soft clink of our water glasses.
