Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
“You have been so forgetful lately, Rachel,” he continued, his tone softening into his best bedside manner.
“Leaving the keys in the door, forgetting the library schedule.”
“I have not forgotten anything, David,” I said.
The waiter returned, setting down the two glasses of wine with a soft clink of crystal against the wood.
David smiled at him, waited for him to walk back toward the kitchen, and then took a slow sip of his red wine.
“We don’t need to discuss it if it makes you anxious,” he said, his voice dripping with synthetic pity.
“But we must face reality.”
“I agree,” I said.
I reached down, pulled the heavy manila folder from my handbag, and slid it across the white tablecloth.
It came to rest directly between his wine glass and his bread plate.
David looked down at the plain brown paper, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion.
“What is this?” he asked, his hand hovering over the edge of the folder.
“Your table is set, David, but you are the only one eating tonight.”
He laughed, a short, nervous sound that died quickly when he saw the expression on my face.
