The Quiet Colours

There's a new woman in town and she's really shaking things up: some people want her gone, some want her dead, and one man can't get her out of his head. It's time to pay the piper, make amends, and lose those quiet colours. It's time to live and love, again.

"You probably know this, but . . ." She pulled the covers off his head. "Listen up, mister, this is important. That girl Debbie knows, Harper Steele something-or-other: the one who had a kid in high school. You know the one I mean—Debbie sold her Cynthia's old baby stuff—" She paused as she put the final items in her handbag. "I wonder if she ever got paid?"

"Anyhow, Debbie told me the guy Harper's shacked up with died in a car crash tonight—Debbie figures he was drunk. So tomorrow I want you to give Debbie an update. Debbie's Bill is looking for work and this guy's job is available." Mrs. Weaver drew quotation marks in the air. "Early bird, fat worms, and all that."

"The man was her husband." Mr. Weaver pulled himself to a sitting position, holding his head in his hands.

"If that's what the girl wants to call him. Po/ta/to, po/tat/o. It's all the same to me."

He twisted the wedding ring from his finger, walked to the toilet, and flushed. "Leave your keys, lock the door, and get out."

"Well! That's a fine goodbye after thirty-five years of marriage." She stomped down the stairs to the sounds of a sullied wedding band clinking and clanging its way through the sewer pipes. Mrs. Weaver threw the keys on the floor. "Lock your own stupid door!"

She said she'd write, but she never did. A week later the bank called to say she overdrew Mr. Weaver's account; he could kiss his new boat goodbye. A month later, Mrs. Weaver's lawyer wrote to start divorce proceedings—apparently, paradise was expensive.