What comes next?

I can feel the weight of his hand on my waist, the heat of his body pressed behind me, radiating.  I open my eyes only to close them again.   Willing him gone, I roll over to face him.  He is still.  Bristly and unshaven, his features smooth and unconcerned, he breaths deeply.  Then he is looking at me.  Eyes of clear blue Mediterranean seas, he is perfection.

“Were you sleeping?” I ask derisively.  He shakes his head, and I can hear the scratching of his hair against the linen of the pillow.  “Just remembering” he says, smiling wryly.  For a long moment we stare at each other, then I say “I hate you.”  He doesn’t blink at this, but I sense a sadness as he stares passed me.  “Just go” I say closing my eyes to him.  At the window the chiffon curtains move and the tiny bells hanging along the hemline tinkle.  “Great” I think, “he plays music when he leaves.”  For a long moment I lie there, the crisp, fresh sheets cool like water against my skin. The bed, anonymous like a motel room, is safe.   Clean sheets, put there by Mother.  She thinks the smell of him will kill me. 

In the absolute vacuum of silence, I hear the doorbell.  The floor is hollow, and I am soundless as I cross the room.  It is Mother, immaculately coiffed.  Dressed entirely in black, she is laden with bags.  In her left hand, on a hanger, a dress of midnight hue.  She peers deep into me, and I look away.  As she places the items down and approaches me, I turn from her, avoiding the hugs and the kisses and the murmurings of nurture.  I sense her shoulders slump, her head low.  “I’ve been trying to call” she says.  I shrug.  “I unplugged the phone.”  She tries again, “How did you sleep?”  At this I look her straight in the eye.  “Like a widow” I spit back at her.  Pain paints across her face. She wants to tell me I’m being a bitch, but she won’t.  As I head towards the bathroom, the phone begins to ring, delighted in its recent reconnection.  “I’m not here” I mumble.

Slatted sunlight streams through wooden blinds, casting an evangelical light.  As I move amongst the masses of floral tributes, the floor thick with blooms, I feel like Dorothy in a field of poppies.  Deceived by an awful trick, I wish I could lay down amongst them and slumber.

DarlingNikki   DarlingNikki wrote
on 4/14/2009 6:43:23 PM
I understand "mean". The character is in an angry space. Initially when I started writing this piece I thought I'd end with a lovely, neat conclusion. But, it naturally found it's way here. I've tinkered with the idea of continuing on, but sometimes life isn't neat, no matter how much we want it to be. Thanks for the feedback!

Bluez   Bluez wrote
on 4/14/2009 7:51:01 AM
I am not sure why, but this feels "mean" to me, if you know what I am saying, but I still like it. You have a way of using words to paint pictures that maybe we don't want to see for reasons of our own, and yet we are compelled to. Very interesting.

Short Story
writing DarlingNikki
Bookmark and Share

You must log in to rate.
Rating: 10.0/10

© 2014 WritingRoom.com, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED