Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
I leaned slightly against the wooden counter, my fingers finding the edge of my silver wedding ring.
“I have not felt disoriented, Jim,” I said, my voice steady. “The dosage has been exactly the same for four years.”
Jim sighed, a small sound that escaped through his nose, and finally set the amber bottle on the wood, though he kept his hand near it.
“David is a good doctor, Rachel,” Jim said softly. “He is just looking out for you.”
“I would like to pay for my medicine now,” I said.
He rung up the two-dollar co-pay, his eyes avoiding mine as he slid the paper bag across the counter.
I took the bag and walked out into the cool October air, the small bottle rattling in my purse.
By five o’clock, the shadow of the oak tree in our front yard stretched all the way to the gravel driveway.
I was standing near the porch, holding a pair of shears to trim the dead hostas, when David’s sedan pulled in.
He stepped out of the car, his dark coat unbuttoned, his gold watch catching the late afternoon light as he adjusted his cuffs.
