By B.G. Smith
We purchased the antique desk at a second-hand store and regretted it immediately. Built to last in the 1950s, my wife and I struggled to load the hunk of cherry wood onto the pickup truck. We removed the drawers and were stunned to find a forgotten personal check dated May 22, 2004 – our wedding anniversary.
The similarities between the desk and our relationship were astounding. The escritoire was impossible to move when we didn’t work together, and a rich history hid beneath its time-worn surface.
“I don’t want a divorce,” my hands trembled.
“I don’t either,” her voice cracked.
“I write because I couldn’t hit the curve ball.” – the writer