Princess Feet

Marie dragged her lawn chair over the grass, which was multiple varieties, none of which grew healthy.

She sat, but didn't want to just look at the new shingles melting in a pile in the driveway, so she turned the chair for a view of Todd on the roof, hiking it in his work boots, jamming nails and laying down the cover.

The daschund established himself in the shade under Marie's chair.

Todd's cell phone rang. He said "I can't talk right now" and something else Marie didn't hear.

She opened her magazine to an article on keeping households in order, instructions for managing a family calendar when lives get busy. She flipped and flipped, settling on recipes for summer cocktails.

Carpenter ants buzzed, which made it hard to focus.

She scooped the daschund from under the chair. She said, "We won't let him divorce us. Will we?" as she examined his paws. The fronts were comically larger than the backs.

Todd's cell phone rang again. He took it out of his pocket, but lost it. The phone slid down over the shingles, dropped down, and bounced on the driveway. He swore.

"I'll get it," Marie said. She forgot to put on her flip flops. Some spots of the lawn pierced, the hot pavement stung. Todd had once said she had princess feet and carried her to their destination.

Marie grabbed the phone and started to climb the ladder. A neighbor watched Marie scaling the house in her bikini. The daschund circled the base below and then began to dig.