I set my suitcase down and look around the room. One bed. One lamp. One washbasin. One chair. One dresser.
A window opens out to the sight of huge grain elevators, and I realize that’s where I’ll be working in just a few days.
The railway line runs right past and soon the back-breaking work of loading the cars will occupy my days.
But my nights?
They say the saloons here are full of fighting and gambling and drinking and women, and I’m all for that. Except for the women, of course.
I left behind the only woman for me. Miss Anglin. Margaret. Read the rest of the story at “Postcard Vignettes”.
Whatever possessed me to think that Marguerite would be a perfect travel companion?
Although we’d known each other for years, we’d never travelled together, save for a few local car trips. She’d been perfectly fine then. Oh, there had been a bit of griping and moaning, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I would simply smile and try to change the subject. But changing the subject didn’t change things at all.