Calendar Girl

Melinda had been surprised when, only a month later, Josh produced his ubiquitous black date book, bulging fat around the tiny clasp that held it shut, opened it and said:

“March 4. That’s the day you’ll marry me.”

His handwriting was firm and clear even in the dim light of her bedroom.

“Oh, Josh,” she sighed, burying her face in his neck. “I do.”

#

As they finished their first dance, they were stopped by Melinda’s aunt and uncle.

“Well, we’ve got to leave,” said the uncle, hitching up his unnaturally brown polyester pants, his gaping shirt exposing flesh the color of suet.

“We’re so happy for you, honey,” cooed the aunt, pulling Melinda in dizzily for a too-tight hug. “You’ll have to get your address to us when you settle in. Do you know yet where you’ll be living?”





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