The Erstwhile Groom

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Burt follows his wife, Livia, through the kitchen, which is dim even at mid-day because of the heavy awning shading the room’s sin-gle window. She pushes open the basement door, presses the light switch, and stands aside so he can carry the bags of canned goods downstairs.

“Yams,” he says. “Twenty-nine cents a can. You can’t beat that.”

“Lunch is on the table,” she says. “We’re out of pickle loaf.”

He knows how much Livia likes pickle loaf, but it won’t be on special again, he thinks, until the next week.

“Monday,” he says from the basement. “Can it wait until Monday?”

Livia doesn’t answer. He hears her footsteps clip across the linoleum. Always she wears shoes that he believes other women would wear for dancing, smooth leather shoes with high, chunky heels and deep vamps that hint at the cleavage between her toes. The shoes make her legs look long and elegant. He’s never liked how Livia shows off her legs; though she’s almost fifty, other men still stare at her.

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