Jagged
The blinds were half-open, moonlight and street lights mingling to tiger-stripe the bare tiled floor.
It wasn’t you…
She stared at the barring of black and white, feeling the silence get closer and closer. Nerve endings were numb, her fingers rubbed restlessly against her skin but felt nothing.
I want something different…
Somewhere in the house, a clock was ticking. The ticks grew louder as she focused on them.
I want someone else…
The clock stopped. She didn’t wonder why. It seemed irrelevant.
You never need my help. You didn’t need my protection …
You never…
You…
A car went past, headlights splashing walls and ceiling and she blinked, a slow smile curving her mouth.
You’re saying I wasn’t — what? — needy? Feminine enough?
No…no, yeah, maybe. But that’s probably why I thought it would work…I mean…given…
Yeah…
Upstairs, what they’d made together slept, in rooms unchanged. Down here, nothing was the same. Empty closets. Empty rooms. A whole lot of empty.
I’m forty-three…I need to find out who I am…
Uh huh. Go, then. Find out.
The house was cold. The hard surfaces reflected every noise, every stray beam of light. He’d wanted the bare white walls, the slick, tiled floors. Easier to clean, he’d said. Cold and unforgiving of noise or glassware or sock-clad feet, she’d countered. It didn’t matter now. She could buy some rugs. Maybe. Think about art for the walls. Get her books out of storage. Maybe.
You…weren’t
You…aren’t
You…you…you…
She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes, squeezing them tight against the pressure behind them. No one, least of all her, needed a nervous breakdown right now. She had to think. She had to be strong and stay prepared for the questions and know the answers and function. Yes. Function as if everything was fine and normal and nothing had happened.
