Alice toes her work shoes moving them around the porch over the knots in the wood like poor man’s sandpaper. There’s a whiskey in her hand and a book on her lap; one is used, the other, not. This is her routine, her way to wind down, her escape. The radio plays on regardless of Alice’s mood.
Stevie’s singing Edge of Seventeen from the kitchen; a white-winged dove sits on the fence listening too. Alice watches the bird as it lifts off into a tree skittish before the eyes of a human. She envies that dove awaiting its mate; it may come. Alice looks to the picture she keeps on the wooden table he made before…. before…. His uniform sparkles in the twilight. For her, this is another day of many. There are so many other Alices out on their porches this evening, every evening, too many evenings.
The song changes and the dove flies away. Alice wipes a tear from her cheek and goes inside. She forgets her shoe. She always does.