Page 280 of Mountain Grump
And the Lonely post office happens to be in sight of the town’s donation center. The sort of place where you can donate clothes and home goods that they sell to fund charitable causes.
It’s a good place.
But Tilda doesn’t have a lot of extra stuff. So I’m curious. And I watch.
I stay in my truck, and I watch as Tilda gives a box to the woman working the drop-off lane.
Tilda is in a blue dress today. And her hair is in a braid. And…
I press a hand to my chest.
She’s so fucking pretty.
I miss her so fucking much.
My wife gets into her truck and drives away, her back to me so I can’t see her expression.
“What are you giving away?”
The woman carries the box to one of the giant rolling bins filled with other recent donations. And just before she lowers it out of sight, a gust of wind blows the top of the box open.
Yellow fabric catches on the breeze and flaps in the wind.
My hand drops from my chest to my lap.
Did she…
Nausea swirls in my stomach.
“Aw, Starlight. Don’t… Don’t do that.”
I put my truck in drive and pull out of my parking spot.
My suncatcher bounces as I clip the curb, turning onto the frontage road. And I reach up, gently grabbing it to stop its swinging.
Hanging from my rearview mirror, the suncatcher is big enough to be illegal in the state of Colorado. But I refuse to put my gift anywhere else.
I need to have Tilda with me. Always.
After rolling through a stop sign, I pull into the donation drop-off lane.
It’s never that busy, and no one else snuck in before me, so as I stop under the overhang, I can see the box that Tilda handed over.
During my one-minute drive over, the woman disappeared inside the building. And I wonder if I can just snag the dress and go without getting caught.
My door is open, and my feet are on the ground, when the side door of the center opens and the woman steps back out.
“Hey, there. Dropping off?” She’s all smiles, and I accept this is about to get really awkward, really fast.
“Um, no.”
She lifts a brow and crosses her arms over her chest, reminding me of my stern third grade teacher. “Then what can I help you with…” She moves her eyes over my outfit, then to the side of my truck. “Ranger.”
I debate lying. But I can’t think of anything good enough to justify what I’m about to ask. So I go with honesty.
“The woman who just came through is my wife. And she, uh, donated some stuff in anger.”
The woman makes an impressed face. “I see.”
