30 Seconds Over Tokyo

"JE-sus!" I said when it hit me. "She's leaving!"

And I got to the window quick. Susan was leaving. She had shrieked out the front door and down the short flight of steps to the driveway. I had framed that window's pale sills myself several years earlier. It had been a satisfying project and looking through it was satisfying as well.

While searching her purse for her keys to our car, she lost control of herself and she knew I was watching her. A shower of stubs, wads, Certs, money, coupons, receipts, tampons, hair clips, trash, and lint flew across the Volkswagen's hood. Susan shrieked again. She picked up a rock, threw it at me and (though she missed the window) actually hit the side of the house.

"She's going to stamp her foot," I thought and smiled when I saw her do it. I waved. I felt so mature, so grown-up. For years, I felt that I needed facts and information to understand people. I had only recently discovered the distinct advantages of thoughtful guessing.

Then she found her keys and I knew she was going to do that, too. She gunned the VW backwards out of the driveway and "whoosh" I said, making my hand do what the car did.