W e headed back to the Econoline and I cleaned up the baby’s breath from the driver’s side. I had plucked it out at the last minute – why clutter up the magnificent roses. Flackette was a big fan of the gypsophila, but I was more in line with the English Garden school. It was indeed a “gyp,” a filler, watering down the moonshine. I palm-dozed the delicate, already starting to dry, flowers into the center of the seat - on top of the two brown cowhide oranges.
We drove back from Brookline, most of the way, in silence. It was an okay silence. Not the silence of I-wish-somebody-would-say-something silence. Nietzsche, I think, said something about a good wife was somebody you could talk to after the erotic dried up. I’ll take a wife you can sit in silence with, without undue tension. Tone was a good wife.
Read the rest of installment #5