In a Toenail Funk

My husband walked into the bedroom when I was taking a picture with my cell phone. The scene disturbed him down to the tip of his appendix. It made him feel a little queasy, what I had just recorded as a digital image.

"What are you doing?" he gasped, horrified.

"Nothing," I said, quickly picking up a sock.

"No, really," he got more serious. "What are you doing? Why are you taking pictures like that? What are you planning to do with them?"

I'm no fool. I know he always wonders what's behind every door, hesitates and considers simply not opening most of them, so as to keep the worms in the can. I'd be suspicious, too, if I lived with someone who refers to her pajamas as house pants and hides chocolate in her underwear drawer. I guess walking in on me like this, in our bedroom, he had to ask, even if he thought better of it.

"I'm saving memories," I said, defensively, "before they're gone."

"Nobody wants to see that," he said, climbing into bed.

But I didn't really care. I was cold. And when I looked down, well, I was reminded of days past; warmer days. Days that had slipped by and I felt compelled to save a souvenir picture of that Georgia Red #9, what was left of it. It made me feel like summer again.

That's it. Just that slim patch of red. The rest all chipped away. That's all that remains from September's Bahamas ballyhoo and breezy days.

I apologize, if you find it offensive.