The Andersons

Stirring:

The Andersons
Anderson was tall, thin, with a cleft chin like the Grand Canyon. He was in insurance. Drank gin martinis. Smoke Chesterfields. A man of few words.

His wife was named Buffy. Housewife. A blonde hair helmet that didn't move. Desperately unhappy face. Blabbermouth.

They lived in Connecticut. Anderson took the 6:05 from Stamford to Grand Central Station everyday and walked to his office on 6th avenue and 46th Street.

Buffy would rise at 8:30, take a handful of pills and mill about the house.

They had no children. They never spoke of children. She spent most of her days shopping from mail-order catalogs; he spent most of his weekends discarding of the boxes.

They had worked together in the early days. Their first contact came when Anderson was promoted to regional sales manager. Buffy worked as a secretary in the home office. She was most efficient at keeping his schedule and tracking his sales. He was efficient at making the sales. The combination of those traits drew them closer together. He earned and she managed. And so it went.

One got the feeling one of them would bust - want to break out of the monotony. But it never happened. They died - he first, and she several years later - just the way they had lived.

The End.