By: Laura Wirpsza
Artist: Sara Bareilles
Album: Little Voice
(Picture taken from http://northbaltimorehistory.org/winter1905.html)
That winter, large snowflakes slowly fell from the sky, softly tapping against the windowpane. The irregular rhythm mocked the lone occupant in the dark room. Short blonde hair plastered against warm cheeks.
Blank green eyes focused on the fresh bouquet of tulips resting on her dining room table. The message neatly printed in black and white.
Will be late, Sorry
She turned back into the dining room. Laundry. She had to do laundry. A chill ran down her spine as she began to sort the whites and darks. Then she moved to bring out her bright collared shirts. Quickly, she scribbled another bright yellow sticky note rested on top. Take to Dry Cleaners. When the washer was loaded, she returned to the kitchen. Clicking on the oven lamp, she began to scrape her dinner into the compost and wash her dish. The reflection of bright white and red flowers caught her eye from the garnet countertop. She stared.
The dish clattered in the stainless steel sink as she walked out of the kitchen toward the bedroom. Their wedding picture hung on in the corridor. She slid open her walk in closet and stared at the contents. Her mouth tasted of bile. The closet door slid calmly shut. She was back in the kitchen. Rereading the printed message.
Will be late, Sorry
Glass shattered to the kitchen floor. Water pooled into the cracks on the black tile floor. Pedals bounced for a second then rested. Seven years down the drain. A walk. She thought, a quick walk down the block. Some fresh air, she opened the front door and laughed at herself. It was still snowing. Fresh snow rested untouched in their empty driveway. A warm down coat and knitted green scarf tucked secularly under her chin, she pulled on her boots. Then stared at the white peaceful neighbor. She took one step. Then another. Another. Another. Another. Another. The snow continued to fall in large soft flakes.
The neighbors whisper that she was so very young and it was such a pity. The poor man had come home late from work on his seventh anniversary to find his house a total wreck. Such a handsome well-mannered man he was. The house had been left unlocked, front door flung wide open. It was astonishing they didn’t take the kitchen sink, let alone the deed. The burglary had even made the papers; nothing was taken just trashed. The laundry room was a complete disaster. A detective had been called in to find his wife. But she was never found. Perhaps she had another lover. Or maybe she snapped. She could have just gone on vacation. But one of the second wife’s daughters swears that on snowy winter nights, you might catch a glimpse of a woman in a coat with a green scarf standing on the front lawn. She’s not doing anything just standing there. Simply standing still and staring with hollow eyes up into the gray sky.
Laura Wirpsza: Better in Color or on Fire. Warnings: Bored Mad Scientist. @merticuflamus, email@example.com