Mouse-ear sized leaves shimmered in the sunlight overhead. Green, so green. Mariah peered north. There was nothing, yet.
“I’ll be there. I’ll meet you by the elm at the corner of the pasture. Wait for me,” he’d said. Mariah smiled, recalling the flash of his grin.
She eyed her suitcase, then sauntered around the tree's trunk, fingering the bark. Please come. Please, please. She squinted north again to the rise in the dirt road. Her mind said she heard the sound of a car. Her breath caught; she lifted the suitcase, then dropped it. No, no car, yet.
The screen door banged against the empty house. The windows mocked her. He’s not coming, you know, they said. He never was. Mariah smoothed her pink dimity skirt, then her curls. He liked her curls. She moved to the other side of the tree so the house couldn’t see her. Tears throbbed in her throat, burning her eyelids.
“He’ll be here,” she declared. Breezes tickled the mouse-ear leaves, dappling her with shadows. His car crested the rise. “Told you so,” she whispered to the house.
“Hello, Mr. Bundy,” she said, climbing into the sedan.
“Hello, Mariah, dear—and please call me Ted.”
