The drive home was uneventful. Nothing happened. At least, nothing he cared about happened.
It was a little after six when he got to the empty apartment. He stepped in, kicked his shoes into the open closet, and shut the door behind him.
He didn’t turn on any lights; the sun cast its fading glow through cool, pale grey clouds. His feet moved slowly, heavily, and took him to the small dark kitchen. Opening the fridge with his right arm he placed the crushed sandwich on the top shelf. It was still good for the next day.
Moving to the living room he slowly sat himself down into a worn easy chair. The television sat in front of him, dead; to his left the cold, dim light came in through the window. He sat there, waiting to cry.
He waited. Leaning back, he searched himself for the hurt, for the sorrow he knew lay there somewhere. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to force it out. It wasn’t like trying to pour out an empty cup- it was like trying to pour out a cup with a lid on it; a lid sealed tightly shut.
Sitting there, in the apartment growing slowly darker. He waited.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
8 comments:
written on the subway back home, on a wednesday night.
you're good.
this kind of hits too close to home for a lot of us
wow.
thats all i can say.
amen to megan.
sitting here, it makes me want to cry. your emotions progress at the same rate as his, as you keep reading.
bravo.
cant wait to read more..
i agree with megan.
that waiting feeling.
you've captured.
slop glop glop.
they'll come.
You write very well.
Post a Comment