Inspired by a story happened 28 years ago.
He opens the door, throws his winter coat over the dark blue Ikea rack leaned beside the thick black frame of their wedding photo. A February cold evening sheds its foggy heavy air over the city urbane, yet the faint flickering streetlights are still struggling to be visible. No wonder that he’s never glimpsed it. He throws his heavy tired body on his couch after a thousand walking rounds in the White Mary Hospital „alleys“ –that’s how he used to call them; grimly enough to make others avoid ever reminding him of his daily routines.
She’s always thought at least earlier of her 11 years marriage life, that what the joy of a doctor would look like if not to roam around his cancer patients checking their regular medicaments doses, nourishing the seed of hope into their tremendous souls. At least that’s his job, so why to bother!
– „You’ve got to get used“, her voice echoed back.
– „No, the Ravioli!“
Well, in such ‚collapse moments‘ as she is used to calling them; avoiding the devastating sharpness of his tongue, averting even looking at him would be wisely pursued. An alternative strategy would likely be to warm his dinner again, pour a glass of wine, settle it down exactly in the middle as he likes, and joining him at the round dining table. But she prefers sinking in the kitchen, rejoicing herself while recalling her mother’s ’strange‘ congratulation words at her wedding: „weave your life stories in a circle of patience; raise your kids fairly just like its curves“.
How could a new wedded Bride after eight-hours-preparation ceremonies be vigilant enough to grasp what’s said or done? Today the wheel of life’s got early rusty. And the worst of all is that she is not even shivering while hearing its rusty whining. And yes, no kids.
– „Water!“ yelled abruptly, discursively after a while but resentfully: „Please!“
Filling in the gaps has turned out a mnemonic game she mastered it well long ago. Yet, figuring out how puzzling their conversations become is far to believe but bitterly true. And still, she couldn’t tell when it all started? Deliberately she moves her head to blink the flamingo flower landed into a glassy pot leaned quietly over the small window in the kitchen, shooting off timidly its blossoms. „How green it turns! If only!“, she sighs.
Out of the blue, she snatches the shopping-list little copybook hung beside her on the fridge’s door and frantically starts scratching on a paper,
Wake. Wait, wail, sex.
Wake, wait, Wane, SEX.
The next morning shy threads of sun manage to split the heavy clouds and tickle the white roofs. The melting snow is spitting flushing the frozen eyes of the houses. A woman is coating her man, buttoning it up gently before leaving to work. But in other worlds of domesticity, a tiny larva sways with the breeze clung to a flamingo leaf counting the days until the spring slacks the frostiness; to swing into the boundless sky.
image copyright is Stocksnap at Pixabay.com