Flash Fiction - The Shot

One year into retirement, Margie had slipped comfortably into a waking routine of sipping coffee and watching the birds in the front yard. It was all she could do in a world full of worry. The network news was chaos. Facebook was depressing. The magazines were bleak. But the birds soothed her soul.

It was pure morning magic at the bay window watching the robins and sparrows perform. The daring jays swooping in and making a mess of things. The squirrels provided comic relief. Yes, she thought, the mug steaming before her chin, here everything made perfect sense.

Since leaving the classroom, Margie had traveled, visited the grandkids down south. She occasionally played bridge with the old bitties across the street. A teacher all her life, she’d thought about substituting once in a while, but had yet to go back in the trenches. Retirement came easy for Margie.

Leonard, on the other hand, was struggling with it.

An actuary for thirty-seven years, Margie’s husband had been a legend at the office. Now, only weeks into his own retirement, he had nothing but time. She was hoping the big retirement party she was planning would boost his spirits.

Margie snapped a picture of the birds. She loved the yellow goldfinch especially. She was dazzled by the maniacal woodpeckers. She’d become proficient with the camera her youngest daughter had given her as a retirement gift—wishing Margie well with her new career as a nature photographer. She was still taking pics when she noticed the feeder was low. 

“Uh oh.” She turned to her husband, seemingly unconscious in his easy chair. “Hon, could refill one of the feeders?”

Margie liked to give Leonard tasks throughout the day. It gave him purpose. Sure enough, Leonard’s eyes snapped open. He let out a grunt as he exhumed himself from the chair. She resisted the urge to comment on his t-shirt, the one he’d worn since yesterday. She didn’t want to sound like a nag.

She did, however, remind him to be careful. It was a chilly late September morning and a few early fall leaves stamped the walkway. Margie worried about her husband slipping and falling, the paramedics finding him in that awful shirt.

Leonard wiped his face as he shuffled to the door to gather his slippers. Margie fiddled with her camera then turned her attention to the squirrels, two of which wrestled beneath the boxwoods in the corner of the yard. Sure enough, Leonard appeared, dragging a sack of feed.

With a giggle, Margie snapped a few photos of her husband. The squirrels scattered as he set the sack down. She hoped the neighbors weren’t watching, as her once dashing husband stood beside the birdseed and scratched his midsection. When he glanced to the picture window, Margie lowered the camera and waved.

She fixed a setting and brought the lens into focus. She was back to snapping away as Leonard reached for the feeder. When he did, his pants fell to the ground like a presentation curtain.

Margie let out a gasp, her finger pressing the shutter while Leonard stood under the birdfeeder, his flannel pajama pants at his ankles, his flaccid, pale bare behind exposed for anyone to see.

A car honked in passing. Leonard yanked his pants up and looked around to make sure no one else had seen the incident. When he found Margie, flushed with laughter, she could only give him a shrug, knowing she’d captured the perfect poster for his retirement party.