Weekdays was a finalist for one of PEN’s short story contests. I lost. This story was better than the winning story, but not better than the second place story.
That day was unusual. Her husband had asked her to lunch. “Lunch?” She replied, unnerved. The last time they had had lunch together was during their spring vacation at that terrible restaurant in Put-In-Bay. That was six years ago.
“I thought we could get out for the day. Talk. Enjoy each other’s company.”
“But it’s raining.” She had read in the Tribune it was supposed to rain.
“Besides, if we go to The Walnut Room you can do a little shopping after.”
What’s he after? She wondered.
“I’ll get my coat.”
Outside of the apartment, She clung to her husband, still suspicious of the outing, but needing to keep warm.
“I believe I will have the pot pie.”
“Do you?” She asked, feigning interest. He had forgotten their umbrella. If it rained, they would be drenched. But if the weather held just a few more minutes more they would make it inside those tall, garish, familiar Macy’s doors.
“Pick up the pace. We don’t have all day.” Her husband whispered into her ear. She looked up at him, shocked by the suggestion she was walking slowly. Was she? Come to think of it, she did feel stagnant, heavy, as if her husband were dragging her along from street to street.
“Do not criticize me. Not today. It’s Sunday.” She politely suggested.
“I told the hostess eleven. It’s already five past.”
“The table will wait. The table isn’t going anywhere. It has four legs but none of them walk.”
“I try to do something nice –“
She felt a drop of rain on her wool coat but soon they arrived.
Afterward, her husband told her he had just one check left in his checkbook and she would not be able to go shopping after all. Typical, she thought. This time tomorrow, he will again be at the office and I will be alone again, at last, in the living room. She would read the latest issue of McCall’s slowly, deliberately. She would disagree with the suggestions of Mrs. Roosevelt. She would have her tea made. She would use the tea to top off the bottle of J&B to not dilute the color. Yes, tomorrow, she reminded herself, weekdays I will not be bothered by this man.
On the walk home, they passed a young couple bickering on the corner of Madison and Clark.
“No!” The girl shouted as the man banged his fist against the concrete wall.
“Stop! I will not do this here! You’re going home!” The man shouted back.
“You go to hell!” The girl tried to wrestle out from under the man. That was when she heard the slap. The man had slapped the girl on the face, but by then her husband had ushered them both further up the street, out of earshot from the young couple.
The sky was clearing. The rain, it appeared, had passed. At least we’re not them, the wife thought. We are unhappy, but at least we’re not people who argue on the street. At least we don’t do that.
“Did you enjoy your pot pie?” She asked her husband.
Weekdays was a finalist for PEN America’s Annual Flash Fiction Competition and is reprinted here with permission.