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Maple Street Entrance

She looked at her watch. He was late by 25 minutes already. She'd give him 5 more then if it was a no show, she'd leave and forget it. And she wouldn't let him change her mind! Men. Something told her he'd been this way always - habitually late. She couldn't be sure though. A long time had passed. Her memory wasn't what it used to be. Maybe that's why he was late. Maybe his memory'd changed too. She was sure he'd said the meeting was today, Tuesday, May 25. And this was the park, Maple Street entrance. No doubt there. And he'd said noon because he was taking her to lunch. Ha! How delicious, eh? she thought a bit angry.

A week went by. Nothing. Nada. She finally called his number. Her resistance, she'd accepted, was a joke. After all, he was a man. And a good one she knew. He'd been so handsome in school light years ago. Now he was a widower; she, divorced. Would it work out after all these years? Why wouldn't it? She was lonely. She hoped he could still do it. She'd have to pop the question soon. A woman answered. (!) Oh, his landlord. (relief) She was sorry. Mr. Sheffield passed away recently. Well yes, it was a Tuesday come to think of it. It was around 10 in the morning. He'd gotten all dressed up and was going out. Quite happy he'd been, she remembered. Such a pity, of course. One never knew these days. Was she a relative or friend calling? Oh, a schoolmate. My, that must've been long ago!

Story by:

Randall Barfield

submitted at 3:53am

booksdavid@hotmail.com

6 November 2008

Randall Barfield's web:

www.myspace.com/423580634