But none of that mattered now. Now, she was free. She outsmarted them and ran away. Literally, she chuckled to herself. She might look small and frail, especially since the hip operation last year that ate her morale and depleted her buxom frame. But she still had life in her. Curvy yet petite, a perfect fit for Roger’s arms, her weight was now down to pre-pregnancy. For the last thirty years she’d longed to gain back her slender frame and it only took a fall on the mahogany rug to do it. That carpet, stained by spills, burnt by wayward fire sparks, was waiting for her. She was free, escaping back to their little house, the one with the brass knocker and steel framed beds. Or were they mahogany?
The wind picked up and she shivered. It came sideways, nearly taking her already wonky balance. It moved the trees with such force that they screamed in her ears, ringing and high-pitched. Another twig grabbed at her arm and she whacked it away, continuing forward and dreaming of a fire Roger would build in the fireplace. The tea would be hot and Elsie would sip from her antique cup, the one with the bluebells painted on the side.
They would talk and laugh and make plans. She would pack her things, the pale blue nightie and her red bikini (that would rouse Roger’s dimples, the cheeky old thing) and they would head to the bay. Elsie knew all about the ocean, her father was a sailor in the - well, it was some British division. She remembered him teaching her about the rhythms of the sea, where they could take her if the craft faced the right direction.
