Wednesday, June 17, 2009
We were trailing in the woods with our friend when Spouse turned to me. I gathered at first that he was winking.
"Is there," he gently queried, "something on my eye?"
I glanced- and the forest floor rose to meet me.
"Perchance, Spouse, I spy a certain something," said I, gnawing on my hand. "I wager that is the thorniest of thorns protruding from your eyelid. But do not have fear! It is but a minor matter."
Spouse stayed perfectly still and I promptly called for medical assistance.
"Friend," I said, "be so kind as to remove the spiked impediment from the fragile skin of my spouse's eye. We would both be ever so grateful for the noble deed."
With a steady and nimble finger, and the slightest of motions, our friend plucked out the cruel barb and consigned it to the wind. The cavity immediately welled with blood, which trickled down for a spell into Spouse's eye.
Now it is told. Yet there is one rather curious thing- and it has naught to do with how a careful fellow could be pricked in the eye through a pair of sunglasses. Spouse insists that the exchange of dialogue- my portion of it- brimmed with considerably less eloquence and infinitely more panic than I portrayed in the telling, and is bold enough to suggest that my demeanor throughout the ordeal was not so calm after all.
I am sure that Spouse is recollecting it all wrong. Memory is an old mischief maker and a trickster that can alter the entire course of a tale.
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 6:37 PM