Fiction: One Glove by Stephen Delaney

1

She must have dropped it coming out: one of a pair of black satin gloves. She remembers holding them as she rose and clapped gingerly, glimpsing Dan’s frown, his glassy green eyes fixed in front of him, and thought crossly, he looks the perfect spectator—though what she’d meant she couldn’t quite say. Outside the night had turned damp, and she slid the two gloves (it had been two, hadn’t it?) into her coat’s pocket.

2

Now they’re retracing their steps, gray car beams feathered over her, shadows circling wide spokes. As her vision sweeps the lot, it’s met between cars by dark pockets—tight, inky wells—and down one she sees a scurrying, a quick wild darting of tiny feet and tail.

Up the front steps, young voices chirp and glide. Her heels clack loudly—the sound of an intruder—and Dan’s eyes stay hooded as she whispers, half smiling, “Surely no one took it? What would someone want with only one glove?”

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