Divorce
Foreboding.
The folded white paper gave her a feeling of foreboding. Something in the way it was carefully centered amidst all the scattered papers on the desk, where he knew she'd see it, alarmed her. Her husband was not a methodical person, but the stark whiteness of the paper and the lilt of his cursive on the front, so carefully done, scared her. It all looked too final. If this was what she thought it was...
Cautiously, like it was a ticking bomb, she picked it up and unfolded it, the careful creases still eminent. She knew what it was even before she read the carefully looping letters. For eleven years he'd kept those things inside him, so inside the perfectly creased note was anger and pent up emotion, lies and accusations. While her shaky eyes read over the hateful words, all his emotions built up and released. He didn't swear, threaten, or insinuate, but the effect it had on her was titanic. She fell backwards on a chair, her chest heaving and vision clouding, not allowing her mind to focus on the one thought that kept trying to invade.
Was this truly it?
The house was silent, and Sunday morning sunshine leaked in, setting its glow over everything. It gave the note an ethereal luminescent quality. Her eyes, attracted to the most unsettling word he'd written so cautiously, began to prickle with tears.
Divorce.
Swallowing the tiny wet weakness, she carefully creased the note back to its original sharpness, pressing down with her thumbnail. The weary, beaten woman tucked the perfectly thought out plan into the mountains of disorganized papers on the table. She stood there in the picture perfect Sunday morning sunshine, staring at one white corner of the note that was peeking out. All she had to do was take her eyes off that one, traitorous corner, turn around, and sit on the couch. Act like she never read that her entire world had crashed down at her feet. If she stood there any longer, with her face perspiring and her feet bare, she felt she would go insane, or at the very least, lapse in to such a state that he would know she read it. He always knew things he shouldn't, someway or another.
There was the pounding of footsteps on the rickety stairs, and the high pitched laughter of a child. She visualized the brass doorknob turning, her husband taking a deep breath, and walking into the house. The child would call her name, run to her, hug her. The man would know she'd read it, and her life would end.
But that wasn't how it was going to happen, not right now, at least. She stepped away from the table, laying back on the couch, feigning sleep until her small daughter crawled on top of her, screaming her name. Aware that her next step could change the future, she stepped to the coward and wrapped her arms around him, noting the stiffening paralysis and shock of his body. His eyes traveled to the table, and when he noted the missing of his perfect, cowardly creased plan, doubt shadowed the angles of his face. He looked as if he was running over the blueprints of his perfect plan in his mind, wondering where he went wrong. She smiled in relief, because she knew he'd never try that again.
He'd have to say it to her face.
Cautiously, like it was a ticking bomb, she picked it up and unfolded it, the careful creases still eminent. She knew what it was even before she read the carefully looping letters. For eleven years he'd kept those things inside him, so inside the perfectly creased note was anger and pent up emotion, lies and accusations. While her shaky eyes read over the hateful words, all his emotions built up and released. He didn't swear, threaten, or insinuate, but the effect it had on her was titanic. She fell backwards on a chair, her chest heaving and vision clouding, not allowing her mind to focus on the one thought that kept trying to invade.
Was this truly it?
The house was silent, and Sunday morning sunshine leaked in, setting its glow over everything. It gave the note an ethereal luminescent quality. Her eyes, attracted to the most unsettling word he'd written so cautiously, began to prickle with tears.
Divorce.
Swallowing the tiny wet weakness, she carefully creased the note back to its original sharpness, pressing down with her thumbnail. The weary, beaten woman tucked the perfectly thought out plan into the mountains of disorganized papers on the table. She stood there in the picture perfect Sunday morning sunshine, staring at one white corner of the note that was peeking out. All she had to do was take her eyes off that one, traitorous corner, turn around, and sit on the couch. Act like she never read that her entire world had crashed down at her feet. If she stood there any longer, with her face perspiring and her feet bare, she felt she would go insane, or at the very least, lapse in to such a state that he would know she read it. He always knew things he shouldn't, someway or another.
There was the pounding of footsteps on the rickety stairs, and the high pitched laughter of a child. She visualized the brass doorknob turning, her husband taking a deep breath, and walking into the house. The child would call her name, run to her, hug her. The man would know she'd read it, and her life would end.
But that wasn't how it was going to happen, not right now, at least. She stepped away from the table, laying back on the couch, feigning sleep until her small daughter crawled on top of her, screaming her name. Aware that her next step could change the future, she stepped to the coward and wrapped her arms around him, noting the stiffening paralysis and shock of his body. His eyes traveled to the table, and when he noted the missing of his perfect, cowardly creased plan, doubt shadowed the angles of his face. He looked as if he was running over the blueprints of his perfect plan in his mind, wondering where he went wrong. She smiled in relief, because she knew he'd never try that again.
He'd have to say it to her face.
♠ ♠ ♠
Oldoldold.