“Louise,” Rose said, hesitating while she looked her room-mate, so comfortable in her peach-fabricked chair with the lilac print, knitting a shawl for her granddaughter Savannah, “Charles didn’t just die of a heart attack.”
Louise shook her head and chuckled. “Well, what do you mean, honey? People don’t die from more than one thing.”
“It isn’t that,” Rose said, stretching her vowels and separating her words. “It’s how he had the heart attack –“
“Oh, I know that, silly,” Louise said, cross-stitching the green threads for Savannah’s shawl into the blue ones, “he was working the plow on the farm. You told me that story a hundred times –“ and Louise sighed.
“No, that’s not what he was doing,” Rose said, looking down. “We were, we were –“
Louise looked up. Rose pursed her lips and looked down. Louise always said she looked like a mannequin when she did that, but Rose didn’t care right now.
“Well, spit it out, honey! What were you, were you …”
“We were making love,” Rose blurted out. “We were doing the nasty nasty. All right, now you know.”
“Well, you didn’t need to shout, my dear,” Louise said, and went back to her knitting. “At least Charles went out with a smile on his face.”
No comments:
Post a Comment