Wednesday April 5, 1950
“You’re going to do what?”
“You heard me. Why do you always pretend that you don’t hear me?”
“I just can’t believe you’re man enough to meet him. That’s all. I mean, where were you for the last six months? I left clues about what was going on. Why do you want to meet him now? Is meeting him your ego thing? Do you want to feel that you’re better than Tom? Well, you’re not. That’s why I’m leaving you.”
“Oh, sorry,” I said. My tortoise-frame glasses flew from my nose into a volcano of papers that erupted from his arms as our shoulders collided.
“Oh it’s you,” Dr. Spencer snarled. He kneeled to gather his belongings. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”
West Allis, Wisconsin
“Call for Richard, call for Richard, call for Richard,” rings from the sidewalk below our home.
“There’s that pesky Bobby again,” Mother groans. She rises from the living room chair. “Why doesn’t he come to the door like everyone else?”
About the Author
Richard Wilberg is a creativity coach, musician, photographer, and former business leader who lives in Madison, Wisconsin.