The Promise

    Cloudy day. Nothing moving. Not a leaf or a blade of grass or the drooping American flag on the neighbor's mail box.

    "Still as a corpse out there," he said.

    "What?"

    "Nothing moving. Not a speck of wind or breeze. Hot day. Humid day. Still day." 

    "Another day," she said. "The gift of another day."

    He snorted at that, the dismissing harumph that he'd perfected and freely offered when she said something ridiculous, something in his opinion was so ridiculous that no response or correction was necessary. The snort said it all and, after 50 years together, the meaning was clear. 

    End of conversation

    Fini.

    Done.

    Over.

    Unless.

    Unless she persisted which even he would admit was her gift.

    "Well," she said in her brightest voice. "It is a perfect day for a walk by the river . . . "

    "Too hot."

    "...or even a slow canoe ride through the chain of lakes."

    "Too hot and too much trouble."

    "Or, we could set up the chairs on the patio . . . "

    He groaned.

    "And the umbrella."

    "Too much trouble."

    But she was already up, in the kitchen, organizing something for him to do, no doubt. Well, he was on to her. He wasn't moving; the chair was comfortable and the air conditioner on full blast.

    But . . . he knew her, knew she would think of something, so he stiffened his resolve, and waited.

    Waited.

    No problem. He wasn't moving.

    But . . . but, then she stepped around him, with a frosty beer in each hand, expertly pushed the patio door open with her hip, and swiveled to go outside.

    Hardly fair, but . . . but  he had promised all those years ago to follow her anywhere, and so now he did.

    Again.