Twenty-four hours until the Turkey Day craziness. Forty-eight until Black Friday, the day shoppers go wild. We decided not to "do" Thanksgiving this year, we're buying lobsters from Walmart (how decadent!) to have with baked potatoes and salad. And there is no desire that would get me out of bed in the chilly early morning dark to do battle with sweatshirt-clad crazy women in a discount department store aisle. I love me a crowded airport, but the shopping riots? Not so much.
When she got back from the police station it was nearly dark but Sharon didn't turn on any lights as she walked through the villa. She, or someone, had turned off the lamps when the Detective Inspector courteously escorted her out to his police car. He had held her arm as if she were an invalid or as if he thought she might collapse with emotion. He had lost some of his sympathetic tone once they were settled in his brightly lit office downtown, and it had taken what seemed like hours to convince him (if she had) that Jack hadn't told her where he was going or who he planned to meet. It had been necessary for Sharon to baldly admit that she had been kept by Jack for years. That she was his arm candy, his sexual plaything, his brainless admiring mirror who reflected back his egotistical preening, cleaned up and polished as flattery. The naked truth of the situation she found herself in sickened Sharon. She sat long into the night outside on the patio with the clattering of the palm fronds overhead sounding like gossip and the dives of the Ganshi, the Brown Pelicans, feeding on a school of grunts coming regularly like the rhythmic shelling of enemy artillery.
Enjoy your day! I have to work.
--Barbara
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