Mrs. Somers Takes Her Daily Walk

Today a small masterpiece, a sinuous path among the poppies, drew Mrs. Somers (who lived for the heat of the sun, although she didn't know it) along.

Some people, you see, will travel to the farthest ends of the earth in search of miracles and mystery, but Mrs. Somers dressed herself each morning and, after her toast, when the little teapot clock over her oven said nine a.m., was more than content to steal away no farther than a block (or two or three) around the neighborhood.

Her morning walks were but a tiny bite taken out of the day, yet they kept her going. She felt pulled along by the stalwart presence of city flowers that persevered without fail, all year long, despite the toxic fumes and inhospitable slabs of asphalt and cement. Now wasn't that interesting?

The poppy-edged path that wound around the hill at the end of her street reminded her with surprisingly great force that life still went along its meandering way, even when you could no longer please your husband in bed and, come to think of it, probably never had.

Retrospection was not one of Mrs. Somer's strongest suits, and her realization about the reality of her sex life caught her, quite literally, between a moth and a hard stone wall that abutted the yard of the eldery Asian neighbor whose multi-voweled name she could never seem to remember.

Her married life had curiously, suddenly explained itself.