Violoncello
Two.
Wine.
She could not taste the sweet wine fill her mouth; it turned to ash at her lips. Sitting at the lonesome table, she places the glass upon it, still gripping it with her death white hand. She wonders where things went wrong, thinking so hard on numbing the pain with a glass of red wine. The lights are still off, and the storm approaches. An impending doom seeps out of the floorboards and grabs her by her high heels.
Studying the dull paintings and red curtains, she loses herself to deep faults of thought.
How, she wonders, could she feel so deceived and calm at the same time? Was it the clashing of shock and vulnerability? She divides her reason for despair in two:
His falseness, and her oblivion.
She knows that something faulty had lingered in him when she used looked into his dark eyes. She had ignored it, but did not forget it. She had decided to avoid confrontation; divorce was the ultimate failure for a woman. The years had passed subtly with a lie under their rug, carefully swept as they walked about. Disillusionment?
How could, in such a short instant, he become hideous before her very eyes, when she believed him to be so beautiful?
Perhaps, she thinks, it was just what she saw in herself: a new side, a hurt side, a naked side. She had become what she feared most: vulnerable. A fall had approached her unexpectedly. A crippling blindness had grabbed her and filled her with sadness.
And, although she had never wanted to die so much in her entire life, there was such unchanged love.
Company.
"Darling, you have sensational taste in paintings!"
A group of finely dressed women crowded around the tea table in the midst of the party, giggling and gossiping. The sitting room was alive with discussion, the happy fire crackling in the brick chimney. Elizabeth smoothed her soft hair between compliments and looked around the room for her husband.
He was chatting away to a few of his colleagues in the corner of the room, using his persuasive charm and good manners to lure them into a contract.
"Elizabeth, dear, what's the matter?"
She looked up to Margaret with a smile on her face.
"Nothing. I'm fine. Just a little tired from all of the celebration," she lied.
She wished she could feel him smiling at her, but she didn't.
Latching her hands together, she said, "excuse me ladies." The women nodded in acknowledgement and continued their conversation about the latest nothings.
Elizabeth crept towards her husband, weaving between her guests, briefly greeting them, shaking hands, and hurriedly leaving to catch him between his words.
She really hoped she looked beautiful enough for him.
"Francis, dear," she spoke. He turned towards the disruption, a grimace appearing. His unpleasant expression disappeared the moment he saw his wife. Grabbing her hand, he pressed his lips to her huge diamond ring, looking past her eyes. She knew he was doing this for show.
"Gentlemen, I don't believe you've met Elizabeth," he announced. Elizabeth. Not "my wife."
She could not taste the sweet wine fill her mouth; it turned to ash at her lips. Sitting at the lonesome table, she places the glass upon it, still gripping it with her death white hand. She wonders where things went wrong, thinking so hard on numbing the pain with a glass of red wine. The lights are still off, and the storm approaches. An impending doom seeps out of the floorboards and grabs her by her high heels.
Studying the dull paintings and red curtains, she loses herself to deep faults of thought.
How, she wonders, could she feel so deceived and calm at the same time? Was it the clashing of shock and vulnerability? She divides her reason for despair in two:
His falseness, and her oblivion.
She knows that something faulty had lingered in him when she used looked into his dark eyes. She had ignored it, but did not forget it. She had decided to avoid confrontation; divorce was the ultimate failure for a woman. The years had passed subtly with a lie under their rug, carefully swept as they walked about. Disillusionment?
How could, in such a short instant, he become hideous before her very eyes, when she believed him to be so beautiful?
Perhaps, she thinks, it was just what she saw in herself: a new side, a hurt side, a naked side. She had become what she feared most: vulnerable. A fall had approached her unexpectedly. A crippling blindness had grabbed her and filled her with sadness.
And, although she had never wanted to die so much in her entire life, there was such unchanged love.
Company.
"Darling, you have sensational taste in paintings!"
A group of finely dressed women crowded around the tea table in the midst of the party, giggling and gossiping. The sitting room was alive with discussion, the happy fire crackling in the brick chimney. Elizabeth smoothed her soft hair between compliments and looked around the room for her husband.
He was chatting away to a few of his colleagues in the corner of the room, using his persuasive charm and good manners to lure them into a contract.
"Elizabeth, dear, what's the matter?"
She looked up to Margaret with a smile on her face.
"Nothing. I'm fine. Just a little tired from all of the celebration," she lied.
She wished she could feel him smiling at her, but she didn't.
Latching her hands together, she said, "excuse me ladies." The women nodded in acknowledgement and continued their conversation about the latest nothings.
Elizabeth crept towards her husband, weaving between her guests, briefly greeting them, shaking hands, and hurriedly leaving to catch him between his words.
She really hoped she looked beautiful enough for him.
"Francis, dear," she spoke. He turned towards the disruption, a grimace appearing. His unpleasant expression disappeared the moment he saw his wife. Grabbing her hand, he pressed his lips to her huge diamond ring, looking past her eyes. She knew he was doing this for show.
"Gentlemen, I don't believe you've met Elizabeth," he announced. Elizabeth. Not "my wife."