This one was written for Dan Mader's 2minutesgo writing
exercise – the only thing managing to kick my butt into writing lately.
This week I injured a
finger. I touch-type and I'm never taking that for granted again. Typing with
one hand is kind of slooooow. This took forever! I guess this is an ode to
little fingers!
The aftermath
So the thing was said in
two words when speech wasn’t needed, the reply losing itself upon the wind
whistling through his brain. In the darkness in which he wrapped himself these
things he came to see: the arch of her back, the light dancing in her eyes, the
red flecks in her hair. But it hadn’t always been that way. In the past they
always sat in rooms, silent; the back of her head the only thing given freely.
The monotone answer of her voice stagnant water, the tapping echo of her pencil
tip an irritation he could never scratch. She was always good at sums, able to
add up anything. Numbers were her thing. And dates. Birthdays, weddings,
appointments, anything – some so random as to be inconsequential. And
anniversaries. He breathed in the smoke. His one downfall the pitiful memory he
inherited from his father, no matter what they say about most chromosomes being
inherited from your mother. How he wished. The woman filed memories like an
elephant. He stubbed out the cigarette butt on the step and gazed down at
Layla’s soft, brown eyes beneath him. She barked and cocked her head to one
side. He nodded and stood. It would be a while before it was safe to venture
back inside anyway.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, Dec 22, 2017
