“I’m not going to be riding horses anymore. And I couldn’t find a way to tell you, so I didn’t. But seeing as you’re here anyway, coming to tell me about other bad choices I’m making in my life, I guess now’s the time.”
Not a video though, and not really a dance. I stood in my kitchen and studied the mute interaction of the couple standing next to their luxury SUV in our driveway. Even with that skewed fish-eye quality of images transmitted by security cameras, it was a mime for me to parse.
She lifting her chin to indicate the thing he was wearing on his head. He removing it, slowly. Holding it. She shaking her head. He clearly undecided, head lowered, hand hovering as if to put it on again. Another firm shake of her head. He opening the car door and depositing it on the seat.
I threw a quick glance around my kitchen again. The platter of crudités ready for serving, plastic cups. Only sparkling water and vegetables, Michal had said.
Would they come up the path now?
No — she pointed downward and her husband bent to straighten something, but I couldn’t see what. His shoes, maybe. Socks? Something else went into the car.
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