This too will be a long and quiet day. Sometimes insufferable. No agenda, no appointments, no deadlines. She stares at the ceiling and notices a spider’s silk thread waving. She follows it with her eyes, not moving her head. And makes a note to Swiffer the corner near the bathroom.

Out of habit, she still wakes at dawn. She makes her bed, the number two task of the day. The sheets are pulled taut, the corners square, the top smooth. She skips the coin bouncing.

She dresses in well-pressed and starched dungarees and a button-down shirt, the cuffs buttoned. Brown leather belt in place. She steps into her highly polished loafers. She sweeps a brush over her short-cropped grey hair.

In the kitchen, she looks out the window as the water heats. Partly cloudy and humid today. She takes the Folger’s out of the cabinet and spoons a heaping teaspoon into a mug. The kettle whistles and she pours the hot water into the mug. She stirs the coffee and watches the liquid swirling. Then she stirs in the opposite direction and watches the little bit of foam at the top reverse itself. She pulls the spoon out of the mug but is still entranced by the swirling liquid. She watches until it stops moving. She takes a sip and looks out the window again and then sighs.

“Here, Kitty Kitty Kitty. Breakfast time!” She calls into her backyard from the little stoop and waits. She puts out kibbles and water for the feral cats who frequent her backyard. She makes a mental note, the weeds need mowing. But it’s only Tuesday. Friday is mowing day. If they get too tall, the push mower will be a struggle. If she mows before Friday, she will have to rearrange all the rest of the days of the week. She does not relish upsetting her routine.

She lights a cigarette and stares at the weeds, her eyes unblinking until she feels a cat rub against her leg. “There you are, you little skunk.” She does not pet the cat. Any of the cats. They don’t like being handled, she has learned from experience.

She goes back inside the house and into the sitting room. She settles into her recliner of worn brown vinyl upholstery and picks up the open book. But she can’t get motivated to start reading. Instead her eyes take in the small front yard that slopes downhill to the mailbox. Weeds there too, but not as bad as the back.

From her recliner, she can see practically all the way down the length of the street. Every morning, her neighbor Art walks by on the other side of the street with his big black dog and his pooper scooper. It seems cumbersome to have to walk with the scooper because of its long handles but it serves its purpose, because on the walk back on this side of the street, when the dog squats beside her mailbox, Art puts the shovel like part under the dog and catches the poop. Then he walks over to the storm water drainage and shakes the dog’s business into the sewer. That damn dog! Always beside her mailbox. Art only got the pooper scooper after she berated him on how to be a good citizen to someone who had served their country.

Marnie goes by with the twins in the double stroller and waves to her from the street. She raises a hand in return. She is glad younger families are moving into the neighborhood, giving it new life and cheer. She feels partly responsible for this because her tax dollars have gone into improving the elementary school.

With a cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth, she puts a record on the turntable. As the beginning strains of Turandot comes on, she rests her head on the back of the recliner and closes her eyes. She inhales deeply and feels the smoke fill her lungs. She remembers the time she saw the live performance at the Met in New York City. She was proudly wearing her dress uniform. And people were yielding to her at the bar and the line to the bathroom. Those feelings of pride and appreciation that night have long disappeared.

She walks to her mailbox but no mail. She looks both ways up and down the street but no one is in sight to wave to. Partly cloudy and humid today.

She enters the house, adjusts the fan so it’s blowing directly on her and sits again on the recliner. She dozes.

She wakes with a start and moves clumsily to the desk in the corner of the room and takes some papers out of the top drawer. She rereads her Last Will and Testament. She is confident everything is in order. 

She picks up the phone and calls the doctor’s office. “Yes, I’d like to cancel my treatment this Thursday. I will be gone.”

She turns the knob on the gun safe and removes her service revolver. She settles into the recliner again and thinks, damn, those weeds out back are really gonna be bad. She puts the gun to her right temple and pulls the trigger.