Next to Zelda’s desk the closet door had been left open. On
one shelf a sizable storage box held hundreds more photographs. A lot of the pictures
were Ed’s. She wouldn’t touch his, just hers. He’d have to deal with his
pictures later. But she didn’t know when that would be because Ed was the
clutter-bug in their marriage.
If Ed weren’t around she’d get rid of everything. Zelda hated
clutter. She remembered a time when her office was free of this sentimental
nonsense. A time when everything was clean and simple, her mind clear, so she
could think.
In the morning Zelda’s house was swarming with police.
Neighbors had observed the woman, clad only in a slip, carrying pile after pile
of belongings into her front yard.
One bystander reported, “She must have been working all
night.”
Another asked, “Where’s Ed?”
In the institution Zelda’s room was stark white. A bed stood
against one wall, a desk and chair against another. On the desk, one lamp, one
pad of lined paper, and one pen, her only possessions. Free of clutter. She
smiled.
(This story is an experiment in the flash fiction genre. I hope to be adding more stories, related to this one, in the future.)
