Outside door was locked. Housekeeper yelled through the screen. She sounded terribly pissed.
Now I hadn’t seen her or heard from her or been by her house, hadn’t seen her hubby, or talked with him, for going on two weeks. Knew it couldn’t have somewhat to do with me, but with woman, you never know.
There wasn’t any where to run, you understand, what with her in the doorway of the only door I could escape through quickly. So I opt-ted for nice.
I asked after her hubby, after the going ons in her village, and finally after her personal health – which proved my undoing.
She told me.
She told me about menopause, about her mensies, which had started this morning after a two cycle absence and where she ached and where she thought she ached and . . .
Well, I said, I did ask, didn’t I.
You did, she said, aren’t you sorry.
(There always seems to be a Later)
“I saw the mother of one of hubby’s co-workers the other day, she volunteers. I asked Hubby about him and he knew him vaguely, but not the mother.”
“Well,” I say, “He hasn’t been working there for very long. Not near long enough to know kith and ken.”
“Yeah. Probably you’re right. But the mother asked me if I was married. I told her I was and she asked me if it was happily married.”
“She told me that her son was recently divorced and that she was down to the library to pick up her grandson.”
“How’d you handle the rest of the day, Housekeeper:” I asked.
“Well, it was nice someone was out shopping and I fit the bill.” she said. “I did tell hubby about the incident, though. He said that as far as he knew the guy whose mother was shopping for a wife for her son?, well, he was married to a bi-poler woman.”
“You escaped, again, Housekeeper.”
“Yeah. Good thing I hate kids, isn’t it?”
From the reaches,