Her not telling anyone might, in some ways, be the worst outcome of all. Because it means I’ll spend the rest of my life—or at least, the rest of Raymond’s life—waiting for the other shoe to drop. An anvil above my head like Acme Co.’s finest, and I’m poor Wile E. Coyote about to get smushed flat.
I don’t know what Susan wants. That’s the problem.
With Raymond, at least, I always know what he wants.
With Susan, the menu is unwritten.
A throat clears and everyone turns to look. Standing in front of the tables is a staff member in a flat tweed cap, who announces that the guns will be distributed shortly, and could we please form an orderly line?
The clutch of partners around Bill peels off toward the folding table, jostling and laughing like schoolboys, which is what grown men become wh
