But to Mark, she was just Lena.
Lena had always been the kind of blonde that stopped traffic—not just because of the color, but because of the way she wore it. Sun-streaked, wild in summer, pinned into a tidy bun for parent-teacher conferences. She was the blonde wife, the one neighbors described as “that lively one,” the one whose laugh could peel paint or charm it back on. blonde wife
One winter, their town lost power for nine days. Ice storm. Trees down everywhere. Lena bundled everyone into the living room, lit candles, and pulled out a deck of cards. Mark watched her deal poker to a seven-year-old, a four-year-old, and the baby, who gummed a king of hearts. In the flickering light, her hair was just shadow and gold, neither here nor there. But to Mark, she was just Lena
The story people told about them wasn’t about her hair. It was about the way he looked at her when she was elbow-deep in garden soil, or singing off-key to the radio, or crying silently after a bad phone call with her mother. He saw her. Not the blonde. Not the wife. Her. She was the blonde wife, the one neighbors
She grinned. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”