Fostering

Fostering
by Loren Eaton

Before Theresa even opened her eyes, she knew the rain had stopped. The air hung still and silent, devoid of the near-ceaseless pattering that skittered over her roof in the cold months. She knew that the gray dawn sky would soon be filled with gaggles of geese. She knew squirrels would stir from their winter nests.

She also knew that it wouldn’t let Richard lie still.

Theresa pushed an arm over to his side of the bed, felt the rumpled sheets, cold but still smelling faintly of Ivory soap, baby shampoo, a trace of male musk—his scent. He was scheduled to work today, but not this early. She threw back the covers, hoping against hope to find him enjoying another cup of coffee, running an iron over his Bochsler True Value polo, polishing a pair of loafers rather than lacing up those scarred old work boots …

But no. The door to the hall closet hung open, the Ruger .22 rifle and orange hunting vest that were normally inside were now missing. Glancing out the front window, she confirmed that the Chevy was gone too.

Later, as she scraped her plate clean of scraps of her bean-sprout omelet, she discovered an empty break-and-bake biscuit container in the trash, 8.4 grams of fat per serving. Disgusting.

“I know he’d never raise a hand against me,” Theresa told the sink, which held dirty dishes haphazardly stacked against a greasy cookie sheet. Yes, but he would also never allow prior obligations to come between himself and a romp through the woods on a clear day, even when it wasn’t hunting season, would he? She sighed. But honestly, why bother getting angry at his habits? She was certainly used to them.

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