It was quite unknown why she had come into town, taken a room at the inn with her attendant. Some kind of business roused her at half past five on a Tuesday morning, as a light in her window and distant sounds of a gramophone announced. The day was dark and rainy, causing the women to rush from the warmth and dryness of the inn to the motorcar idling in the lane. As soon as they were inside, the car sped into town, as though they were running late for something very important. The date was May seventh, my birthday.
I watched them return later in the afternoon as I was reading a book on the windowseat, cozy against the chill of the day. Although she was soaked by the hastening rain, her face was uplifted and she walked lighter than when she had come, as though a burden had been removed from her being. Perhaps that meant is was her birthday as well, I mused as I continued my book.
They stayed at the inn for a week, coming and going on various errands, their arms full of parcels on most afternoons. On Saturday afternoon, I was in the garden when I noticed her leaving. She appeared to be sorry to go, putting reluctant distance between herself and the inn with tiny footsteps, ambling in the warm sun. I crouched down a little lower behind the garden fence, not wanting to make her feel as though I was watching her with critical eyes instead of the genuine interest that drove me to follow her path to another waiting car.