(no subject)
The space only fit one and he preferred it that way. The slant created by the closet-door walls forced him to sit Indian-style. A full arms length separated him from any other spatial constraint. The inside was painted florescent white that parted only for the presence of an old glass dryer door serving as an observation window. Guarding the back of the structure was an aluminum siding plate set on a single hinge. From the inside he couldn’t tell the weather and could only guess the time of day based on the shadows on the roof of his home. He would argue that in space one doesn’t feel time pass, which helped explained his frequent and extensive visits to his backyard space shuttle.
As he closed the aluminum plate he'd exhale deeply, hang his tie on the rack, and undue an extra button. He’d slide his shoes off and leave them near the door, dragging his feet through the grass flooring and flicking on a suspended flashlight. The fact that the shuttle wasn’t air proof didn’t bother him, nor did the lack of electronic modules. He'd intended to build an adventure craft, not one for sheer data advancement, and felt proud in the simplicity he took comfort in.
At first, she didn’t notice the difference between the shuttle and the tool shed he informed her he was building. She’d only notice him pry around the garage for parts he'd toss into a wheelbarrow and take outside. When she needed him she'd rely on the sound of classic rock and the line of empty beer cans to direct her to the man she married. When loud bangs would wake her they would lead to her inquiries on the project, though she'd usually find herself satisfied when his familiar eyes caressed the corners of her face helping her ignore the fact he was changing the subject. One day he finally laid down the tools. When the noises stopped she too felt herself grow silent.
Floating, he couldn’t hear his telephone. He’d admire the view from his observation window with the delicacy and curiosity of a surgeon operating on the deepest parts of his own wife's heart. The colors seemed richer, the lines more defined. His eyes leafing the proverbial page as he'd begin to devour another aspect of his life and backyard. It was in these moments that he felt no need to separate the two. He’d notice the wind still blowing in his absence, the flowers blooming and dying to a beat all their own. Through the dryer window the context of his life would unfurl and he'd bow to the majestic details he'd otherwise ignore.
Before the kitchen door even opened he knew who it was. The blades of grass would bend in anticipation of her bare feet and the wind would wrap around her frame like wire. she could pull off any shade but today she chose white, the kind that alluded to a time he did not know her; the kind that made his memories inadequate. An effortless turn of her wrist and she'd pin the sheets onto the line, a pivot of her stance and she'd turn towards the garden. No movement was wasted by the vessel of her beautiful soul. He’d often find his fingers on the glass as if trying to pin her current image onto the scrapbook of his mind. While away, she was the only one he could miss.
The launch always came at the right time. He’d reach for the flashlight and uncross his legs. He’d take a second to catalog his thoughts and secure his plans for a successful trip.
5.
4.
3.
2...he would open the latch and bid goodbye to his indifference.
1.
Blast off.