three novellas by Annabel Lyon
EXCERPT
THE IDEA FIRST came to her one limpid yellow morning toward the end of the war, as she sat across the breakfast table from her husband, watching him chew with toast-textured jaws. The minutes were falling down like dominoes, and she had a full day planned once he had left for the eight fifteen, so that the idea had at first seemed negligible, a silver coin of a lake glimpsed from the window seat of an aeroplane, easy to forget.
When do I expect you tonight? she asked, turning back to the immediate clutter of her coffee, her magazines, on the table in front of her. Grape nuts, Victory Bonds.
And he, across his plate and paper: Late. Tanner's invited everyone for drinks. How's eight thirty?
Well, that's fine, she said.
Make lamb chops.
All right.
Kiss me.
Shave.
Kiss me anyway.
She moved to his lap and closed her eyes and there it was again, a long way off yet winking deliberately. She had planned a day of work and errands, and wondered if this funny little fantasy would accompany her through the sequence.
Our lady of the dry cleaning, she murmured. Our lady of the cold cuts.