Young Love

He used to call her at three in the morning.  Just to hear her voice. Sitting in the factory’s lunch room on his break, he’d speak to her on the payphone. Other guys would drink their coffee and talk about home runs hit on a softball field, their mother’s cooking, the truck they just bought, while he stood in the corner talking to her. All for the cost of a quarter.

She’d tell him how her day went. Talk about going to the grocery store, what she made for dinner; a plate was put in the refrigerator for him. She made some kind of Hamburger Helper dish. He liked those.

The young mom would tell him she wanted to see him as soon as he got off work. Always said she had a surprise for him; a deterrent from going to the bar. He’d go straight home.

And there she’d be. Playing a Charlie Rich tape. Dressed in a silk robe. Watching him eat at the table. The kids were in school; they had all day.

The blonde would draw the curtains, blocking out the sun. It’d be pitch black. She’d grab his hand and lead him back to the bedroom. The sound of trucks going by on the highway put him to sleep. The wife would hold him up to her, tight, not letting go. Never letting go.

She loved him.

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