Читать книгу Alone: A Love Story - Michelle Parise - Страница 25

The umbrella is bright green, like a neon lime. I climb into the passenger seat of our car one morning when The Husband is driving me to the subway, and there it is, sticking out from under my seat. Clearly it’s a woman’s umbrella. But whose? And why? I lean over to get it, but it’s jammed under the seat. You might even say purposefully jammed, in hindsight, but you just don’t know, do you? I question The Husband and he seems unfazed, saying it must belong to a male colleague of his that he drove to a football game. I point out it’s a pretty fancy, feminine umbrella but he just shrugs.

All I know is there’s a woman from work he told me about a few weeks ago. It came out of nowhere, that revelation, like a scene in a David Mamet play. Something we were just speaking about, as an idea, not actually talking about, you know?