by Dana Curtin
She rose early Saturday morning to prepare everything just so.
Coffee freshly ground and ready to brew.
Fat, sweet oranges cut in two and squeezed into two deep blue juice glasses from her Mexico trip.
Fresh croissants, marmalade, soft butter.
And to make the morning special, a clean, white tablecloth.
Spotless. Sparkling. Fragrant from the summer breeze she had hung it the day before.
Fresh irises in a tall crystal vase.
Vivaldi’s Four Seasons playing softly as the morning sun began to rise.
But he rose quietly out of bed without her notice, put on his shirt and tie and slacks, and passed by her in the kitchen without a word.
He was out the door to the world which drove him,
out the driveway without a sound, without a glance.
But instead of taking all the beauty of the new day with him
through the door,
light streamed into the breakfast sunroom,
sparkling in the water around the irises,
streaming blue and orange through the spiral juice glasses,
bringing summer back into the room.