Secrets, part two

Leta and her husband Ora had been spending a quiet evening at home. Her children Vivian and Dale were in bed, and the couple was sitting in the living room. She was sewing a shirt out of other materials for Dale, who had recently grown two inches very quickly. Ora was in his chair, dozing, passing gas and drinking a friend’s beer. He was in a poor mood, there being little money in the house, even though he had just started a job. He failed to understand how it cost more to feed, clothe and care for four than it did just for himself.

But then he wet himself. He simply lacked the wherewithal to get out of the chair and go to the toilet.

The realization fully awakened and irritated him. He stood and waddled into their bedroom, leaving Leta and the wet easy chair in the living room. After the initial shock, Leta examined the chair. A small puddle of urine had worked its way through the cushion and formed on the floor.

Her face red with anger, she clutched the unfinished shirt to her chest, stared toward the hallway and called her husband, but he did not reappear. After a few minutes, she threw her sewing onto the chair where she had been sitting and stormed after him. At the entrance to their bedroom, she nearly tripped on her husband’s discarded trousers. Stepping quickly around them, she approached the bed. Ora had barely been able to remove his trousers before passing out onto the bed still wearing his wet underwear.

Leta felt the rage boil inside of her and tensed her arms. But instead of applying physical pressure to her oblivious husband, she simply turned, grabbed her coat and purse, and left the house. Ten minutes later, she was seated at the blind pig, the cool gin soothing her anger and disgust.

“Hello, young lady,” the man said more loudly than he had the first time.

She was startled out of her irritation and acknowledged him.

“May I offer you a refill?” the man asked.

Leta looked at him curiously. Had he not noticed the wedding ring on her finger? It was there, plain as day, on the hand gripping the near-empty glass.

Once he recognized her acknowledgment, he asked her again. “May I?”

He was rather handsome, Leta thought quickly, with deep brown eyes, thick hair slicked down and a stiff new blue suit. His face was clean and newly shaven.

Taking her silence and attention as confirmation, he gestured to the bartender and pulled out the chair opposite her.

“May I join you?” he asked as he sat down and rested his hands on the small table.

That’s when she noticed his hands. They were smooth, pale and thin, with just a hint of veins running through them. He had long fingers and clean cuticles. None of the men she knew had such hands. They were all rough and scarred from years of labor—either farming, factory work or painting. This fellow’s hands, however, fascinated her. She instinctively reached for them and then withdrew quickly.

He grinned sheepishly.

“Yeah, I know. They look like I haven’t worked a day in my life. I’m an attorney. I grew up in a boarding school. I played lacrosse and competed with my horse, which caretakers maintained. And I even play the piano.”

As her hand went to her heart, Leta expelled her hair as a little whistle.

“Are you all right?” he inquired.

“Oh yes, thank you,” she said softly and then batted her eyes.

To be continued.