Sunday, May 26th, 1935

Do I tell her? Would it serve any purpose, be of any value to us, to how our lives unfold? There is something magnificently joyous about keeping one’s own silence, some small sliver of a private world.

We walk this path every day, we see the same pebbles, the change of the seasons. We embrace the traditions of yore. We know, with a certainty grounded in lore, exactly who we are.

This Sunday, we worship. I am a devout man. Have no doubt of that. Marian, in her own staunch way, is even more devout. But in our tiny world, even while the jackboots trounce and the world slowly sinks into some enormous cataclysm, small pleasures appear.

I have reached out to Franz’s miracle.

I wonder if Marian suspects my little indiscretion.

How Franz does it I don’t know but on certain days he has a wireless with magical reach. He has always been adept at wires and machinery. “Anthony, the world is so much bigger that we know. And somehow, this man, this Babe, this wonderful man, brings us together.”

Earlier this year, Babe Ruth had flown around the world, become a sign of hope. Franz and I had followed his story from that moment in 1932 when he knew where the ball would go, when he pointed, as if it were preordained. For reasons I barely fathom, I see in this American, hope.

We listened. Last night it was Radio Luxembourg. “Sometimes, Berlin broadcasts interfere… but tonight, Anthony…”

And of course we were blessed with the news that this splendid king of swat, sadly past his prime, has hit three home runs in one game.

I ambled home in the dark. Marian chastised me for returning at such a late hour.

And so, now, today, we walk. I keep my secret pleasure. She wonders. She is a practical woman and laments that I am not as down-to-earth as she.

But I pray that on this Sunday she too has her own enigmas to keep her company.

 

This my interpretation of Jane Dougherty’s  Microfiction challenge #17: A satisfied couple. I have taken some seasonal and oth liberties. It is, for my purposes, May of 1935. The painter, Antos (Anthony) Frolka died that year. I trust my little confection has not done a disservice to his memory.

 

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