My husband left his wallet open on the kitchen counter this morning, and I just happened to notice a wadded up piece of lined paper, which looked oddly familiar. My curiosity having taken over my common sense, I unwrapped it, stunned to see my handwriting.
The paper was a torn remnant from a larger sheet of discarded paper, one that on the reverse I had scribbled some figures I needed. I had thrown the scrap in the garbage can by my desk. At the time, I thought, wouldn’t it be funny if he found it. A persistent niggle went through my head that perhaps I ought to tear it up into smaller pieces, but I didn’t, of course. In the future, I should remember to trust my instincts.
A few minutes previous, Hubby had just returned to the house after stowing away the empty trash can we had left by the road for garbage pickup. Had the crows ripped open one of the bags and scattered refuse about? Or had Hubby snooped in my garbage can? I think it was the former, since I had emptied the office garbage can weeks prior.
What he found was the start of a short story. The actual words aren’t important, except to say they had nothing to do with him. Obviously, though, he thought they were, thus stashing the scrap in his wallet, probably to hurl at me someday in a heated moment.
I was tempted to explain or toss the scrap in the garbage yet again, but then he’d know I had snooped. At least now I have forewarning that the words will raise their ugly head in the future, and I will have my “excuse” prepared.
I’m a writer, after all. You can’t always believe everything a writer writes.