View Full Version : A short story I wrote.


dainger
11-24-13, 05:31 PM
The alarm went off. On the right side of the bed there was movement, a creaking alerted her to a disappearance from bed. She heard as he slowly opened the closet door, checking to make sure he hadn’t awoken her. To play along, she closed her eyes and silently wished this day had never come. Robert finished getting dressed, and slid out the door sneaking one more glance at her. She reluctantly slunk out of the soft, warm, bed towards the closet. She opened up the musty, wooden smelling, closet and opened the hidden panel to reveal her clothing. The dry-cleaning bag crinkled as she pulled out her belongings. Shutting the panel, she began to dress. She heard Robert downstairs making breakfast and getting ready for the long road ahead.

The early morning sunlight hits the Lexus pulling out of the garage and creates a jarring sense of reality for Angelina. They are going back. The earthy, cold, morning air hits her lungs as she opens the door and slides into the car. The expensive leather interior is like ice water in her veins, a shock to her system. Her husband Robert sits besides her, glancing furtively towards the neighbors house even though it is miles away. They settle in as the car begins to make its climb back to civilization. During the trip they think about how this all started 3 years ago. Their lives were dull and boring, they had everything they wanted and yet nothing they needed. There was no purpose, no spark, just the bitter and never-ending cycle of wealth. It torn them down and tore them apart. That was no way to live.

Entering the city, the harsh metal structures growing from the earth reminded her of their past life. She began to get back into character, to begin the mindset of urban housewife with a rich husband. She looks over to see Robert doing the same thing. Sadness. Resentment. Regret.

Entering the stale apartment, overlooking a city full of life and yet dead, they begin the ritual of returning to their tasks. Robert gets a beer from the fridge and goes into his study to begin working; she won’t expect to see him until tomorrow morning. She goes into her room of the house, the only room that can be definitively be called her own. She sits down in her chair and picks up the book she needed to read for her book group. Something that just didn’t quite fit in with her other life. The light begins to fade as she sits in her chair, reading a book that doesn’t interest her for a group that doesn’t interest her. Orange shadows change to bluish city light, as the world leaks into her consciousness. ****. She forgot to make dinner. Taking a long, deep breath, she stands and places the book on the stand exactly where it was left before.

Walking through the living room, she glimpses light still coming from the study and a deep feeling of loss and despair hits her stomach. Walking into the kitchen, a plate of Alfredo the temperature and consistency of marble sits on the granite counter top. Next to the plate, a crisply folder piece of paper with the letters Ang scrawled on it is propped up. She takes the plate and places it in the microwave, hidden away in one of the oak cabinets. She feels the oak and remembers when her and Robert picked out the cabinets with thoughts of the happy future they would have together fresh in their minds. A harsh, metallic beep brought her back to reality as her food ceased spinning.

The week passed as slowly as a week could pass by, and Angie couldn’t wait until Thursday came. The issue was it was only Monday night. The book group met at her house on Tuesdays, so she had to get the food prepared and by prepared she meant she had to travel around and get bits of food from each catering place and deli around the city. The vultures would swoop in around 6, so she had just enough time to run in shower and open the containers of food before the insistent chiming of her doorbell began. The loud, obnoxious, giggling commenced as soon as the door was open, so she takes a deep breath and lets the floodgates open. “Kyle did this.” “Sarah said this.” “Tom and Karen are dating.” A never-ending plethora of gossip and lies spew from the mouths of 4 city women. Angie tries to seem somewhat interested but it is difficult when her mind is on Thursday. When the conversation makes its way to the book, it is around 9:00 p.m. and Robert should be home soon. When the women leave, she sets down a plate and places the bits of food left over from the group. Sliding into bed, 12:00 a.m. came by too fast. No Robert. Sadness. Resentment. Regret.

Wednesday, the day she submits her review on the book to an online literary review site, is also the day that she goes to the market. The market is a sad excuse for fresh produce, but it is the only thing that keeps her mind on Thursday. The smell of fresh produce in the air is in direct juxtaposition with the mechanical smells of the city. She had to travel 20 miles to find it, but every Wednesday it is worth the travel. She only buys a few things, not wanting Robert to find out. Thursday reaches her and she is antsy until the slights squeak of their door alerts her that Robert is home. She wants to hide her excitement, so she tries to occupy herself with needless cleaning. Robert walks past her on his way to his study. He then comes out a few minutes later, “Ready to go?” She can’t muster anything more than heading to the door. Back to the country, back to her marriage.