From the corner of her eye, Franny glared at the gloves, which poked upward and seemed to beckon from the worn passenger's seat. How they had chaffed her through the entire meeting of the Ladies Club, making her realize just how comical her pretense had become. As she took the last turn toward home, the gloves were again in her hand.
Before Grannan's words about reckless waste could fully surface, she had flipped the bright ivory pair out the open window. From the side mirror of the Ford, she caught a diminishing glimpse of their tiny forms, finally benign in the muck and mire of the spring cow pasture.
"Just where they belong," she said to herself.
Buy Franny's pre-muck gloves here.