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.’