Saturday, May 22, 2010

Chips

There was a time when they enjoyed each other’s company. Just in short bouts but in a good mood, he was fun, happy, hilarious even but lately he’d become sour and dour, rude and unempathic. Difficult and obstinate, uncommunicative and down right mean spirited.
They’d never been really close, she the confident  eldest and he the ‘third’ child with a chip on his shoulder. Just a small chink in his armour that rose and fell with his varying moods but not enough to be obvious. Like an old cup, you’d still take a drink from it and hardly notice the missing shard. 

 
The chip grew into a fracture. The cup began to break. There was no repairing this now. Nothing she did was right. Her attitude was wrong, her kids were a pain. Financially she was a moron, emotionally she was unstable. She was bolshy and argumentative. Useless. He resented every part of her for one reason or another.

 
Something happened. She never knew why he was bitter but his angle became childish, he refused to talk, wouldn't discuss his agenda was undisclosed but bitter and she never understood.

 
At first it didn’t bother her but then . . after words were said. Sharp little syllables that pierced her heart and can never be taken back. Blood it seems is not thicker than water and bitter blows and great untruths were spread flashing forward like a phosphorous incendiary piercing and damaging the softness of her core. She was a good person, a kind person an awesome mother. A bad judge. How dare he strip her self respect. She was all too aware of her failings an didn't need him to remind her of her naivity.

 
She takes the largest blade from the block. It’s strong. Good German design. Solid, sharp. It glimmers as it catches the rays of downlight streaming behind her neck.  She gives a feathery flick of her thumb, perpendicular to its raw edge. It nicks but doesn’t draw blood. She pulls an aloe tissue from the box, the same box, she draws tissues from to wipe her nightly tears. The tears he never sees nor would care about if he did.

 
He often slept, inebriated and clutching a glass of red wine. It would be nothing to slip through the sliding door and glide the slippery blade across his throat. Quiet. Messy but quiet.  She’d watch him gurgle and shake and look at her quizzically "WHY?" Because he’s so stupid, so unintuitive, so blind to all but himself that he has no idea how she feels. She’d like to make his wife feel the way she feels. Betrayed and bullied, widowed and miserable, poor and distant, alienated, unappreciated and alone.

 
She sighs the sigh of sighs, audible to the dog lying on the kitchen floor. He raises his head in abject empathy and support and she smiles. She checks herself, reins herself in. Feels a wash of shame sweep over coinciding with  another hormonal flush. She fears her folly and wonders from where these dark thoughts spring.

 
She averts her gaze and pays fatal attention to the plump and red tomato awaiting its demise on the board before her . . like madam guillotine she slices . . pretending it's his  . . .
 . . . .if only she could live as if there were no tomorrow!

6 comments:

  1. Is this the entry or the one before? I never realized how easily confused I am … only when I pay attention.

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  2. Sorry dude my fault. I linked the blog not the post. This one will go up eventually.

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  3. Hey, you posted it!

    Now link it, damn you!

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  4. Too bad the tomato can't scream and writhe. That'd be ever so much more satisfying for her.

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  5. This is good. I recognize these people. Very much so.

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  6. when in doubt, kill the fruit.

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