Panther Prattle

A Less Hurried Cadence

"I cannot be away for one hundred days," whines Marcia.

"I am not suggesting a one-hundred-day vacation," I retort while sliding the patio door open.

A bug zapper a few lawns over sends electric charges through unsuspecting insects before I continue, "And if I were... you could if wanted."

Marcia's hands slice and swirl to punctuate when she enunciates, "I can't... I have a shop to run, and I have," then fall to her side when I add, "Pantyhose with runs."

"Those too," she smiles while fingering a thin gold chain draped around her neck.

"You travel for trunk and fashion shows... all the time," I gripe.

Marcia's nose twitches, as it always does when she feels cornered, and this evening I stare intently as it wiggles like gelatin.

"That is only marginally true," she counters.

The retort settles before she adds, "And besides... that is different... its work and it's really more like forty-eight days spaced throughout the year."

A sticky, summer breeze blasts through the patio screen causing Marcia to follow with, "Ugh... the humidity is killer."

I take a few cleansing breaths, tapering animosity fueled by alcohol, then add "Marcia, there are multiple spring and fall Fashion Weeks each year, you attend them all... every year."

She opens her mouth, but I rush forward with, "If we combine all the shows, and factor in overnight flights and variances in times zones... it's approximately ninety-nine days each year."

Marcia knits her eyebrows into a giant caterpillar while she stares first at me, then beyond me -directly at the wall.

She bats her lashes, floats her gaze across the room, then back toward me before uttering, "Let me think about it."

I nod, not in agreement, but because I've already decided to vacation without her.