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Baraka_Guru · 11-20-2008, 10:55 AM

Claire sat alone in the dining room, with the lights off. Digging her fingertip and thumb into her dampening eyes, quietly dabbing her nostrils was preferable to letting him hear she was weeping. It probably didn’t matter; he was likely already asleep upstairs.

He had respected her on one count: he had kept his voice to a harsh whisper so as not to wake Tyler. That was all. It was for Tyler, but it had been her wish. She would have taken anything at that point—anything to hold together the ends as they frayed night after night.

The day hid much of this, even on the lightest surfaces—those surfaces most out in the open, where nothing seemed easily hidden as they lie there bare to the careening glances of passersby. The darkness intensified the unconcealed malevolence: the weighted looks, the yearning for prescribed responses that will never come. Even here on Calle Belanguaire, amongst the coveted sidesplits.

*

Where she had stopped being Claire Donahue, she had become Mrs. Foreman. She hadn’t lost it; perhaps she merely had put it on hold, had hidden it away.

The widower next door, Mr. Threadbare, had been kind enough to lend her some coffee grinds that morning.

“There you are, Mrs. Foreman.”

She received the freezer-burnt Folgers graciously. Mrs. Foreman, he had called her. It never landed safely upon her ears.

It was her last bastion of dignity, the brief moment each morning between her husband’s leaving for work and Tyler's waking. It was only enough time for something of a ritual, something done with automatic efficiency, with no thought of the actions, for it was her mind that had been preserved in those moments.

It was sometimes fifteen consecutive stirs, but it was usually more like three series of five—she would take a breath at each interval, marking out the absent-minded pattern of the day. But it was always fifteen—always. It didn’t matter what was made of it, what came out of her conduct with this dark bitter drink. No one was there to be displeased, or to disapprove. It was hers, for no one else even knew about it.

11-20-2008, 10:55 AM	#6 (permalink)
Baraka_Guru warrior bodhisattva Super Moderator Location: East-central Canada	Claire sat alone in the dining room, with the lights off. Digging her fingertip and thumb into her dampening eyes, quietly dabbing her nostrils was preferable to letting him hear she was weeping. It probably didn’t matter; he was likely already asleep upstairs. He had respected her on one count: he had kept his voice to a harsh whisper so as not to wake Tyler. That was all. It was for Tyler, but it had been her wish. She would have taken anything at that point—anything to hold together the ends as they frayed night after night. The day hid much of this, even on the lightest surfaces—those surfaces most out in the open, where nothing seemed easily hidden as they lie there bare to the careening glances of passersby. The darkness intensified the unconcealed malevolence: the weighted looks, the yearning for prescribed responses that will never come. Even here on Calle Belanguaire, amongst the coveted sidesplits. * Where she had stopped being Claire Donahue, she had become Mrs. Foreman. She hadn’t lost it; perhaps she merely had put it on hold, had hidden it away. The widower next door, Mr. Threadbare, had been kind enough to lend her some coffee grinds that morning. “There you are, Mrs. Foreman.” She received the freezer-burnt Folgers graciously. Mrs. Foreman, he had called her. It never landed safely upon her ears. It was her last bastion of dignity, the brief moment each morning between her husband’s leaving for work and Tyler's waking. It was only enough time for something of a ritual, something done with automatic efficiency, with no thought of the actions, for it was her mind that had been preserved in those moments. It was sometimes fifteen consecutive stirs, but it was usually more like three series of five—she would take a breath at each interval, marking out the absent-minded pattern of the day. But it was always fifteen—always. It didn’t matter what was made of it, what came out of her conduct with this dark bitter drink. No one was there to be displeased, or to disapprove. It was hers, for no one else even knew about it. __________________ Knowing that death is certain and that the time of death is uncertain, what's the most important thing? —Bhikkhuni Pema Chödrön Humankind cannot bear very much reality. —From "Burnt Norton," Four Quartets (1936), T. S. Eliot Last edited by Baraka_Guru; 11-20-2008 at 01:31 PM..