“Tell me what?”
“About the wedding.”
My head was spinning.
“What wedding?”
She looked at me like I was being difficult.
“Tina, you’re sitting at a bus stop in a wedding dress holding one shoe.”
“This one.”
“Tina, you’re sitting at a bus stop in a wedding dress holding one shoe.”
Her mouth trembled.
“I know.”
I looked at the shoe.
She was gripping it so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
It was expensive-looking, polished leather except for mud along the side.
She was gripping it so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
“Why do you have that?”
She looked down.
No answer.
Then I asked the question I had been avoiding.
“Who did you marry?”
Still nothing.
Then I asked the question I had been avoiding.
Her eyes dropped to the shoe.
I didn’t ask anything else until we were in my car.
And she started crying.
Whatever that shoe meant, I suddenly knew I wasn’t going to get the answer out of her on the side of the road.
I didn’t ask anything else until we were in my car.
I turned the heat on high.
She stared straight ahead.
We drove in silence for ten minutes.
