Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
“You should let me handle the errands,” he said, turning the knob of the front door. “I worry about you driving when you have so much on your mind.”
He walked inside, leaving the door open behind him. The warm air from the hallway spilled onto the porch, carrying the scent of cedar and floor wax.
I stood on the porch for a second, my thumb rubbing the thorny stem of a rose until it drew a tiny drop of red. The small pain was sharp and real.
How long had he planned this gentle routine? I looked down at my hand, where the drop of blood was dark against the green paper sleeve.
I followed him into the house, closing the heavy oak door behind me.
In the kitchen, the light felt too bright, casting long shadows across the linoleum. The yellow roses sat on the counter, their bright heads tilting toward the sink.
David took off his wool coat and hung it in the hallway closet before returning to wash his hands. He used the lavender soap I had bought at the autumn market, lathering his fingers slowly.
