“It’s nice… very open… this table is really big you could invite Boone and I over for dinner sometime…”
These words drifted off in to the room and the silence swept in like falling poisonous blossoms in a hurricane. The poignancy unintentional, but carefully crafted; rolled like a fine cigar in the hands of a child.
I ran my hand, skin dry and rough from the lotion she took and I needed to replace, along the sealed wood of the cabinet concealing the TV. In silence I set up the cables and cords so that it received signal from the world outside. Images sprang into action diffusing the room with senseless chatter. The wind bent apple tree in the rumpled backyard sighed and wheezed as it gasped along with the minutes and my extended duality. Friend, former lover, spouse, handyman, fixer of meals and broken sheetrock mincing the garlic and the power of longing. My longing. The innate desire cruising through all tangents of my life, pleading with the train of time to bolt forward if even just for a minute. Get past this.
I close and lock the door when I get home. The sink smells of wet spoilage and the clothes link together on the floor in a haphazard macramé begging me to pick them up and give them the dignity of the wash basket. I kick instead, bind rage infused, and they scatter like vultures disturbed from a carcass, some of them landing on the violet pocket shoe rack hanging on the closet door. Not mine.
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