This is the sixth installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
He strives to keep the best lawn in the neighborhood. Keeping the grass at a length of two and three-quarter inches allows for a full look and plush feel—not like Tim Henderson’s scraggly weeds.
Marion Jone’s walking group passes at 7:14 on the dot—just like always—and Stewart nods to them as they go by. Their thin, tight smiles make him feel like he’s a stranger accosting them at a twilit gas station, but at least they see him.
In the house, Stewart retrieves a glass of lemonade from the fridge and doesn’t look at his wife. Erin continues staring out the window above the sink even though she just placed the last plate in the dish drainer. Water drips from her hands, and she doesn’t reach for the towel. Stewart doesn’t need to follow her gaze to know she’s looking at the tire swing.
He studies the bare refrigerator door just in case she decides to turn toward him. The rectangular patches are stark white against the aged eggshell door. They cover the top half like freckles on a face—or scars.
Erin doesn’t move, but she speaks after several minutes: “The lawyer will be here in an hour.”
He nods even though she can’t see him.
“And the movers will be here on Wednesday.” She pauses. “We need to finish packing up Hannah’s room.”
“It’s almost done,” Stewart says, and his voice is hoarse. He downs the rest of the lemonade.
“I’ll help—”
“I have it. Just—“ He considers washing his glass in the bathroom sink. Instead, he refills it with lemonade and places it back in its spot in the fridge.
She’s crying. She’s learned to sob quietly by now, but he can see her frame rocking like a clogged sprinkler spigot.
His hand aches to touch her shoulder or pat her back or something, but he shoves it in his pocket and turns back toward the front door. “You just—go lie down for a bit. I’ll handle the lawyer.”
He’s out the door before he can see her nod. There’s an uneven patch in the grass.
Miles Away 