“How have you been lately?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
She stood beside him in the cold and hoped he wouldn’t be able to hear the plea in her dry voice. She hoped the thirty degree weather and the fact it was night wouldn’t left him notice her trembling hands. She hesitated and then took out a cigarette from her coat pocket. Lighting the slim stick had finally seemed mechanical. That is why she smoked. It was something to do with her hands when she needed to focus. Breathe in. Breathe out.
“What was the most exciting thing that happened to you this week?” he asked. He smoked also.
“I can’t think of anything, at least nothing positive,” she said.
“Me either…I started talking to an old friend, if that counts.”
She smiled. “Yeah we could count that.”
Deep breaths of cold air followed short inhales of wispy smoke. It felt necessary to focus solely on breathing when it came to days where it hurt to think or feel.
“Are you still sad?” asked a voice.
“Yes,” said a different voice, “always.”
“Yes,” said a different voice, “always.”
“I don’t know this song.”
“Listen.”
She closed her eyes and curled into a ball. Classical music always made her feel like a small child. Music stirs something in your soul. It makes you ache or smile without asking for your permission to do so. She put all of her energy into sitting still so she could simply listen.
“Do you want to read my story?”
She said she would love to and he brought her a copy from the printer. She pressed her hand against the smooth, warm pages and slowly digested the words. It made her want to laugh and smile at the anecdotes and carefully placed details.
It was lovely. It made her want to cry.
Later at home she repeated the process of slowly reading the short story. It was bittersweet. She hated how similar she felt to the central female character. It scared her.
“Are you still sad?”
“Yes…always.”
No comments:
Post a Comment