(no subject)
The forest was dry and silent, with the trees too few to catch darkness. A river ran by it, and the sounds of the motorway could be heard nearby. Two women walked along the path next to the water, talking with a metropolitan loudness. One of them was small and plain, with a mobile expression that jumped from merriness to deep concentration. Nodding her head when she spoke, one could not help but notice that there was something a little blank in her face when unanimated.
‘How’s the husband?’
The one she spoke to was older, with dyed blonde hair and brown eyes. She was dressed in a black coat with a fur lining: a coat that somehow said that she was a family woman. She carried a gaudy silver bag that looked like a deflated disco-ball, something like her face, which had a prettiness not faded but turned serious with age. She smiled, and replied:
‘Oh, you know Joel.’
‘He’s not being difficult, is he?’
They were wont to speak of their husbands to each other like naughty, affectionate children. They had a good idea of how their husbands talked about them, too: a good-humoured resignation in their voices, and their eyes crinkling as they related their little anecdotes of married life.
‘No, but he’s not being productive, either. He’s a bit like Winnie the Pooh: always got his head trapped in something.’
(unfinished due to running out of time in internet cafe)