Strangers Read Online Free

tiredness radiated down through her shoulders and arms. Her fingers were stiff and sore from squeezing the hedge clipper to snap off any twig that failed to conform to her vision of what the bushes should look like.
    Standing on the sidewalk for a better view, she was pleased with her efforts. Nice job with the out-of-doors—and, come to think of it, she wasn’t any too bad with the indoors —either. She had an eye for color and composition; she liked the way she’d decorated their home and felt comfortable in it. And if finances were okay next month, then those antique crystal lamps would be perfect in the living room…
    Is that all there is? The remembered lyric from an old Peggy Lee song floated through her head, souring the pleasure she’d felt. Was that all there was for her? Yardwork and housework, prettifying this and that, raising kids and clipping coupons, traditional woman’s work in a time when women were throwing away tradition. Good God! She knew and was friendly with every woman on the block, and was a real friend to none of them; comparing cures for childhood diseases or chatting about soap operas was hardly a basis for a true friendship.
    She just had to find something that would stimulate her mind, get her intellectually excited as once she’d been—assuming her mind wasn’t ten years past its shelf life with disuse!
    With a wave, Michael bicycled past her. She turned her head to watch him ride down Walnut, the sun ahead of him. For a moment, it was as though he had merged with the sunlight, the outline of the leap-hipped man melting in golden-silver, his shoulders and head seeming transfigured as though by an internal radiance.
    The thought surprised her, though it was a thought she’d had before. She watched the receding silhouette of the man on the bicycle and in her mind she said, I do not know who he is. She had a feeling not unlike the one of leaving the house and then, an hour later, not being sure—only somewhat sure—that she’d unplugged the coffeepot.
    Oh, it was ridiculous, she thought. They’d been married twelve years. She knew the jokes Michael would tell at parties, knew he liked his eggs over easy and could not tolerate them scrambled, knew exactly what type of sweetly sentimental card he’d give her on her birthday, Mother’s Day, anniversary, even Sweetest Day, he never forgot—knew the mole on his behind, the way his little toes curled under, the faded white scar on his knee.
    But with all her knowing, the myriad of bits of information that are supposed to make up the totality of a human being, she still sometimes had the fleeting idea that there was a secret inner self in Michael Louden, a self she had never had more than the merest glimpse of, as though there were someone else residing in Michael’s familiar body.
    A stranger.
    She was being stupid. With nothing of real importance to fill her brain, she was constructing fluff-brained fantasies spun off from the 3 PM movies on television: Beth Louden in The Invasion of The Body Snatchers!
    She returned the clippers to the garage and went into the refreshing chill of the air-conditioned house. With keen anticipation, she awaited Michael’s return. They would have a special time, a time with each other, for each other. She would regain the feeling of closeness with the man she knew so well, her husband, Michael Louden.
     
    He was a “people” dog. He liked people, the way they smelled and how they scratched his head or patted his flanks and fed him food from their plates.
    The dog liked this man. When the man squatted, called the dog’s name in a whisper and softly snapped his fingers, the dog lifted himself up, first his rear end and then his front, and came to the man.
    The man said, “Good dog, what a nice old crippled-up fart.”
    The dog knew the words “good dog,” and so he wagged his tail. He didn’t know the other words, but he knew the sound of the voice that spoke them and that meant everything was