Polly snuggled against the side of the love seat. She penned a letter to Richard and listened to Sinatra croon. Polly’s little brownstone smelled like hearty, warm, food, with a hint of sugar cookies. The soft white lights around her Christmas tree gave the room a pleasant glow. The few gifts below it were wrapped in matching paper with big, handwritten name tags.
She spent the afternoon in the kitchen working on an array of Richard’s favorites; hamburger steak, mashed potatoes with gravy, and green peas. After she finished her love letter, Polly made him a warm plate. She went to her room to change before delivering Richard’s food. She reappeared with her blonde curls fluffed and dark lip stain reapplied.
She packed his food up and tapped the letter to it. Polly kissed the picture of Richard that sat framed on the counter. She grabbed one of the gifts under the tree and headed for her car.
Richard waked in the house and set his briefcase on the counter. There was a Tupperware plate full of food and a letter laying out beside it.
“Don’t touch any of it,” she said.
Richard looked up to see his wife jostling down the stairs. His initial reaction was to pick up the paper and read it, but the familiar twirl of lights outside alerted him of the police.
“What’s going on? This again?” Richard leaned over and squinted to catch a few words of the letter before his attention was drawn to his wife.
“It’s too much! It’s got to stop. I could have been killed when that thing came through the window!” She cried.
The police arrived at Polly’s home. They found it to be neat and cozy, nothing out of place. She was happy to answer questions. As an officer took down her name and information, the Detective took a look around and asked questions that popped into his head.
He checked the fridge and noticed the leftovers. The Detective looked around the counters and noticed the picture of Richard. He made his way back into the living room and two more pictures caught his attention.
“Ma’am do you know Richard Smith?” The Detective asked.
He leaned over for a gift under the tree.
Same paper. Same heft. Same nametag. Different brick.
“Of course, he’s my therapist,” Polly smiled brightly to the Detective.