12.12.2009
We write fiction when we wonder what life is about. 25 years stuck listening to the world with its own hopes and dreams, 45 minutes of speech falling upon ears all too eager, all too itching to hear whatever it is they want to hear. 45 moments of irresoluteness. Irresoluteness! Could it be so simple? Could it be so complicated? What was this mystery that was bothering her? Why did her chest burn so deeply and her head feel so light when she tried to think about it? Why couldn't she make sense of things anymore?
Cherry knew Henry wouldn't be home tonight. He zipped his shaving kit closed this morning in the bathroom. Zipped it up tight, and put his toothpaste in the medicine cabinet. She had seen him moving, she watched his large arms move in their bathroom, watched him turn off the sink and turn, glance at her, leave the bedroom, close the door. She pretended she was sleeping. She was watching.
Henry cleaned up after himself on days he knew he would be seeing her. Cherry wondered who he cleaned up for, was it her-- his wife, or the other 'her,' in his life-- his daughter, Amelia. Henry went to see her every so often, maybe a few times a month, simply disappeared for a few days without telling Cherry. Cherry knew better than to be hurt by this. She knew a man's blood was his own, and ran deeper through his veins than ever a silly Cherry-wife could, but still, she let it hurt her. It consumed her. Cherry was consumed, and Henry delighted in the sweet taste of her cherry-pink flesh in his mouth.