He’d called her from work. Told her about the emergency trip to Houston. She was quiet on the phone. They had planned a long play weekend, and he knew how she had looked forward to it. Truth to tell, so had he. It’ d been a long while since they’d had extended time to play.
He asked her to pack his large bag, and he’d swing by the house to grab it on his way to the airport. As he pulled into the drive, the house was dark, silent. One light alone shone from the upstairs back corner window. She was in their bedroom. Quietly he came through the front door, looking for the her and the bag.
That was odd. She was usually so good about following his directions. He went to the kitchen, grabbed a soda, chugging half of it as he came back through the foyer. He put his hand on the newel post, listening.
From down the street, the faint sounds of the neighborhood, but inside, silence. He frowned. Something must be amiss. She was always ready for him, waiting at the door. He went up the stairs, slowly, quietly. And nearly fell over the opened suitcase as he entered their room.
She lay, curled, sleeping, waiting. A note on the bed was folded, his name on the front. Inside were two words: Take Me.
He smiled, tucking the note in his pocket. Thumbed open his flipfone and called the office. Explained a family emergency, and delegated the travel to another. As he turned to look at his sleeping beauty, her eyes opened.
He would indeed take her.