"At times I think my coffee and tea addictions truly drive my artistic energy. It’s a small sacrifice for the greater good."


Posted: 12/17/09 | Written by Jeannie | Labels: , , ,

©2009 Jeannie Hart

Her eyes wide open as she lays motionless in the bed – knees to her chest, the world around her just background noise. The old, rotary style clock flips in front of her as the minutes pass by. She listens to the noises from the kitchen— they make her pull the white duvet closer to her chest. She realizes he is still here. Tears start dripping from the corners of her eyes as the wet spot on the crisp white pillow grows.

He stands in front of the stove. Moving quickly as he beats eggs, pours just a bit of milk, and moves them over to the hot pan. The messy, dirty blond hair that she always loved about him—flops in his face as he cooks. Silver pendent lamps shine down over the dark granite countertops, it’s still early. The sun not up yet. Looking out over the loft as he adds in onions and bell peppers, he realizes how cold the apartment is. Modern design has its price. The only warmth the kitchen, which is rarely used: unless he is there. Pulling out dishes from under the counter he moves the eggs to a plate. He pours orange juice into a small glass as he arranges a flower in another. Smiling he takes the small tray up the loft stairs and sets it down— next to her curled up body. Sitting on the edge of the bed he puts on his shoes. Reaching out to touch her shoulder only to recoil quickly and grab his watch and wallet that sits on the mirrored side table. His head dips as his words drop from his mouth; they are heavy and thud into the silence like a gunshot on a foggy day. “You don’t have to act like this.” His torso twists as he faces her, “be an adult. We’ve both seen this coming for a long time.” He exhales a sigh as he gets up and returns down the stairs.

Her hand wipes her cheek as he walks down the stairs. She can’t turn to face him, not like this. She can’t call out to him to tell him that she loves the way the room dissolves around him, how life fades when around him. Not with tears in her eyes and emotion on her lips. So she lays there listening, straining to hear his every move. The soft shuffle of his feet; he gathers his things, the door opening and closing behind him as her gut wrenches.

She blinks. The clock flipping forward through time and yet she stays still. Propping herself up on her elbows she can feel the sun dancing on her feet. Glancing over—her eggs cold—she realizes, he walked out. The plate flies across the room. She yells as she throws the tray against the wall. Tears stream down her face as the perfect bed that they bought together is ripped apart. Pulling covers, throwing pillows, trashing the things they cared about. Her back against the wall, she slides down – pooling into the emotions that all women have but cannot show.