It is two days after Thanksgiving. Old Tacoma, my Tacoma, is draped loosely in a low-hanging mist. My boyfriend, Kevin, and I – determined to work off at least a few calories of unfettered holiday indulgence – have embarked on a semi-brisk walk toward Ruston Way.
I arrived at 11:55 a.m. But according to military time, I was late. Exhausted children were already napping. Wives with new hairdos fidgeted.
My first impulse was to turn away.
We stand in the crisp night air, our breath forming billowing wreaths around us, before drifting slowly away. This reminds me of time – gossamer, intangible, something that cannot be held onto.
It began as a guy’s night out. My husband organized it on a whim, under the pretense of Christmas shopping for girlfriends or wives. He called it the “Shop-O-Rama.”
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