She peers out over the room, through the half opened French doors, at the unmade bed. Looking over her shoulder with wild, unkempt hair, and a pained pensive expression on her face, she just stares. The room is clean, but messy, full of old guitars, pillows, stacks of books, an ornate Persian rug and large cushions to sit on. Outside a pair of early buses sigh and break the silence. Everyday it is the same. He leaves for work early and comes back late, never saying hello or goodbye. It is as if she isn't a person at all.
There are things she wants to say but never could; things she wants to do but never would. Her dark inky eyes always seem about to run, though they remain still as stones. Months ago she'd come here, quite unsure why. Maybe because then she'd felt his desire, felt wanted, needed. He spent a lot of money on her. She liked that. He'd look at her then, stare into her soul, trace the outline of her body with his eyes. It was a staring contest that she secretly thought she might lose. If she were capable of it, she would have blushed.
The date is April 22nd, but it's freezing. She shivers with her back against the cold white wall. She hears birds singing sad songs. Cars speed past in spectral waves. The sun, rising, tries meekly to break through an oppressive veil of clouds. It is April 22nd but it feels like this to her every day.
Last week he brought home company and she forced a weak smile. His friend commented on how beautiful she was.
"Yeah, isn't she," he'd replied.
No comments:
Post a Comment