Let Me Tell You by Shirley Jackson

closed she got out of bed and crept softly in her bare feet over to the dresser. There she opened all the jars and bottles of powder and cream and perfume; most of these she rubbed onto her face and into her hair. She carefully removed all of her clothes and then, as carefully, put them on again, but backward. Then she wriggled under the bed and played there until the new maid came and said she could get up from her rest. And, the new maid added, tightening her lips, Mrs. Morgan could just keep her clothes on backward for the rest of the day.
    Later in the afternoon, as she played and danced among the flowers, Mrs. Morgan met the little boy again in the garden, and he yelled at her from a distance, “Nyah, nyah,
youuuu
can’t boss
meeee.
” She chased him, but he escaped her and stood behind a bush and jeered at her, as the squirrel capered above their heads in the late afternoon sunlight. Mrs. Morgan began to cry, finally, and ran away herself, into another part of the garden. It occurred to her that she could go into the house and ask for another cookie, but she had just turned the corner to the front steps when the sun, which had been meditating on this scene unnoticed for quite a while, went down.
    Mrs. Morgan, her foot on the first of the steps, turned when she heard a sound behind her, and saw her husband.
    “Evening, Agnes,” he said formally.
    “Arthur,” Mrs. Morgan replied as formally. Together, in silence, they went up the steps to the front door. He held the door open for her and they went inside. In the living room the lamps were on, and Mrs. Morgan thought briefly how comfortable and warm it looked after the chill that had followed the sun’s setting. Then Mr. Morgan said, “Why, look at you. You’ve got everything on backward.”
    “Well, you’ve got mud all over yourself,” she said angrily. After one more mutually disapproving glance, they turned their backs on each other.
    “Dinner is served,” said the new maid, from the doorway.
    Mrs. Morgan sat down at the table, looked deeply into her bowl of consommé, and said, “Heavens, I’m tired.”
    “So am I,” said her husband, as though the fact surprised him.
    “What
do
you do all day?” asked Mrs. Morgan maliciously. “I mean, to get so tired?”
    “More than you do.” His voice rose to its familiar argumentative tone. “If you think—” he began.
    “I think,” Mrs. Morgan cut in smoothly, “that you are speaking to me as though I were one of your secretaries or some such thing. Remember,” she pointed out icily, “you are not my—” She stopped abruptly.
    “Well, you can’t boss—” he began, and then he, too, stopped speaking. His face went crimson, and Mrs. Morgan, her own face reddening, stared back at him. “You can’t boss me,” he finished weakly. His mouth stayed open as he stared at his wife.
    “
You,
” Mrs. Morgan said helplessly, “can’t boss
me,
” and then they both began to laugh, guiltily at first, and unwilling to look at each other, but then, finally, holding on to each other weakly while the tears rolled down their cheeks, until they were no longer able to laugh out loud but could only gasp.
    “Arthur,” Mrs. Morgan said finally, barely able to speak. “Oh, Arthur.”
    Mr. Morgan wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “And your clothes!” he said, “Agnes, your clothes!” Together they burst into laughter again.
    The new maid, peering through the swinging door between the dining room and the kitchen, watched the couple for a quick minute, and then, grinning, returned to her dishwashing. From upstairs, the voices of the children drifted down to her through the open windows.
    “And when you’re right on top, in the little tiny branches”—Andy’s voice rose—“you can swing, and hold on tight, and swing way out over the ground!”
    Anne giggled softly. “I had five cookie crumbs and a grape,” she said. “You know the little cups in the little tiny china closet? Well, they