VIII.

Quincy Mackerel was a standard man full of standard principals.

VII.

Marge’s head was full of thoughts. They swirled and rattled, rattled and swirled. and she could never seem to settle on one. How will I ever choose a man, she debated and chewed on a frazzled strand of hair. her mother had told her, in the kitchen, when she was the ripest age of nine, that men have the obligation and privilege of choosing, and not the other way around. Marge winced.

VI.

Rodger waited patiently, or at least he liked to think so, thanks very much, by the door, the leash in his mouth. on Tuesdays they walked to Bickham Park to watch the old families come and go, the children skate down the lane on their toes, and the leaves changing color. Marge had once been told that you could hear them change. she knew, of course, that one could not in fact hear the colors of the leaves changing, but as she slammed the imprudent (begrudged) door, threw on her felt-tipped pen purple coat, and headed out the gate, she listened for the sighs and whispers that only secrets bring, that no one knows, and that she would never tell. Rodger was looking forward to the stroll and could not bring himself to tell her that she had in fact left the ice box open and the back door ajar. they plodded onward, the fallen soldiers now brown. They crunched and exploded under Marge’s sturdy boots and as they came into sight of the heavenly oak, one could not help but notice the quickening of her toes or the rise and fall of her shoulders in expectation. a triumphant smile. a secret victory, marge thought. a treasured friend. Rodger lightened his step and shook out his coat. They could walk to Bickham tomorrow, he supposed, for they headed in the wrong direction, and who was he to say anything. he was, after all, only a dog.

V.

Margaret forgot something on a Tuesday. She knew that she had, for it was Tuesday after all, and of course she had already forgotten what it was. The kettle has been put away and the step stools whisked from the kitchen, leaving no trace evidence behind, and thus rendering no deflating and irrevocably annoying, pitying glances. egregious glances, if you asked marge. and when asked to host the Waldrip’s women’s luncheon, or even to have Juliet over for tea and scones, she could never evade the lingering questions or the implications of those questions that hung on Jetta’s tongue. she could feel her eyes, following her around the room as she tiptoed in and out of the cabinets and pantry for this ingredient or that, they seemed to say, ‘oh hello marge, there’s an elephant in the room.’

IV.

Marge was not old, she was not tall, and she did not care if everyone in Fogley’s Crest laughed at her attempt to hack down the noxious twits. or if they knew why. (of course they knew why.) Sighing once more she climbed back onto the stool at the base of the stove, promptly took a lady like swig of Merlot from the bottle, and tasted the soup, nearly searing the flesh off her tongue. She scowled, grabbed her cardigan, and flounced out the door. Dinner could wait ‘til tomorrow.

III

How could it be, she thought. that every day the trees look different? marge stirred and a sigh fell short of her lips. every day the trees look different and from the window marge could see not only her sacred tree, bless her, but all of Quincy mackerel's eighty-nine ungodly and fertile eyesores.

Every day from the window, marge stirred her dinner, sometimes letting it simmer into reckless abandonment. she stirred and wondered how the trees looked different and the damned, dastardly vines seemed as though they had not budged. they hadn’t budged. of course they hadn't. oh bother. marge stirred and counted the syllables in the phrase she had only just whispered. out the window and across the null, through a much more angular window, and onto Quincy’s cheek where his sideburns met his ear. she turned in a jerky and awkward movement, pivoting and losing her balance as she ricocheted from the footstool before catching herself on a cabinet door.

At an abundant five-three, her house was belabored with footstools and she dreaded desperately people towering over her. shriveling and patronizing, stinging their grisly armpits in her face as they would abjectly announce, ‘oh here Margie, let me get that, old girl.’

II.

Margaret met Quincy on a thursday. it was one of those coincidental and yet improbable rendezvous. She had gone to Elsa’s to pick up a few overpriced grocery items. Heirloom tomatoes, a rosé from Provence she couldn’t pronounce, all natural tile cleaner. Coffee. and always and seemingly always, coffee

I.

Stealth pruning is more exciting than one might imagine, she thought to herself as she shucked another spindly root from the live oak. they’d been strangling her for months, the cowards, and they could never seem to straighten up. Margaret tore them from the bark and as she pulled the bark skivvied off like decorative flakes of chocolate on a groom’s cake. no, coconut, no, almond. but who will marry me anyway, Margaret bit her cheek. she liked to sweat. it felt productive, and when the sun came just over the hedge and thundered towards her single (unanimous) tree, she felt a drop of sweat slide onto the whites of her forearm and down her wrist. it glistened in blonde hairs that burled and clung to her skin, and she thought, old marge, you’re all right. (alright).