jeff
05-16-2005, 12:35 PM
A lover’s tiff
He walks into a dark hall and flicks the switch out of habit. He kicks himself mentally when no light escapes the lifeless bulb.
“Damn, I forgot to get a replacement bulb again. If she’d just reminded me.”
He’d promised to get a replacement bulb, over a week now. He could never remember to get one from the garage when he put some petrol in the car; work was always on his mind. She could remind him in the morning then maybe he would remember.
Sighing, he puts his briefcase down, next to the growing collection of bills with final reminders written boldly in letters of red, still unopened and slides through to the living room.
“Hello? I’m home!”
He waits for a reply, finding it strange that all of the lights were out and the curtains were still open. The T.V. was on stand by, as he’d left it that morning and the chairs were as tidily arranged as before.
“Anybody here?”
Impatiently, he reaches for the light switch and flicks it on and he cringes with the intense light.
“I don’t think she’s been home yet.” He thinks anxiously.
“I hope everything is alright.”
With the house so quiet, he notices the clock ticking noisily. It’s funny, that he’d never noticed it before. The television usually downs it out or the sound of their arguing muffles its noisy ticking.
“7 o’clock…Where are you?”
He wanders over to the curtains and draws them to a concealing close.
“Don’t want the neighbours thinking that something is wrong.”
Everything seems to be in place but the odd picture was at a different angle, but nothing to worry about. He picks a picture up and looks at it fondly and a faint worried smile appears on his concerned face. A picture of him and his wife, back then. When you they looked and argued over a picture like this, they had only thought of the good things at that time; they had compared it to the present and imagined that that things were much better then. Unsure himself, he places the picture back in its place on the mantelpiece.
“What’s this?”
He spies a piece of paper on the table, folded neatly. Picking it up he unfolds it, his hands shaking. He catches his breath as he reads it aloud.
“On the bridge of our first meeting you might find me for one final journey. Say you’ll join me?”
He drops the paper, letting it fall to the ground. It folds itself up as it twirls to the ground, bouncing off the floor untidily. His shaking hands find his mouth and he places a nervous hand over an expression of distorted anxiety as he passes a few scattered thoughts through his pulsing mind.
“What does she mean?”
He turns around, leaving the light on and grabs his car keys. He felt no reason to explore the rest of the house. It wasn’t a home to him: just a place to come back from work to.
“Where did she go?“
Wondering where he should go, he decides to take her meaning literally and head to the large bridge over the sea.
“Is she trying something romantic or something? I don’t know, I just don’t know.”
Struggling to get the keys into the car door he scratches the paint.
“Shit, that’ll start to rust!”
He licks his finger and rubs at the scratch and tuts. Finding the keyhole he opens the door; annoyed at himself for being so careless with his expensive car. He checks himself in the mirror then distraughtly reverses out onto the road. Sighing, he looks back at the house again. He bites his lip as he thinks of the violence that has ensued in that place: violence he had caused. Why did he do that to her? He couldn’t find a good reason for it. He just did it. He found it a way to relieve himself of anger and stress. Why didn’t she try to stop him? He had so many questions now. Did he doubt himself?
Checking himself in the mirror again he curses as the lights ahead of him tell him to stop. He’d been too distracted to notice and slams on the breaks. His heart thumps as he looks over at the bonnet. He must have been millimetres away from the car in front. He sinks back in the chair and sighs. As the lights change back to green he heads towards the bridge. It was a cold night and he hoped she was wearing something warm. He didn’t want her to catch her death of cold. He loved her, although she probably didn’t think so. Not now; not after the things he’d done. Had he lost her forever, or was this a last chance to repent?
As he pulls up to the bridge, he expects to see her standing there, waiting for him. The bridge went on too far into the darkness to see her and his heart sinks. Driving a little too fast, angry drivers show their unimpressed opinions as they sound their horns. He barely notices them as something less familiar catches his eye. Bringing the car to a halt he jumps out. He leaves the car running and starts to run himself. His wife, alone in her wedding dress, was standing on the edge of the bridge. A few curious, judging glances stole the view as they drove by in their own protective unawareness.
“She wouldn’t!”
Shaking is head in disbelief, tears sting his eyes. She leans forwards, her dress rippling in the steady sea wind. He runs forwards, realising he wasn’t going to reach her in time. His crisp tie creases in his panicked dash. Stretching a desperate arm forwards he keeps running. Burdened with an immense guilt as he grabs at her dress, she plunges from his fraught sight. In his hand is a shred of her dress. Bewildered, he stares into the darkness below.
“She didn’t! This can’t be!”
In disbelief, he grips the shred of dress and leans against the railing. Reaching down, hoping that she would grab his hand, he hears nothing. The sound of inquisitive cars disperse, the sound of the wind in his ears fades away. He felt nothing but sorrow and guilt. He had driven her to this. If he’d cared more, if he’d just stopped when she was crying out for him to lower his hand. Why didn’t he? It was too late to repent now. She was gone. This was it. All his fault.
He can barely see through the salty tears in his eyes as he climbs onto the railings. A few cars slow down to stare, but none stop to gape. Closing his eyes, he grips the shred of her dress and leans forwards. The wind rushes past him and for a moment he is scared, scared for the sins he had committed and the punishment he would receive for them after death. He didn’t care: he deserved all he got. He was a terrible husband and he had caused her so much pain that she had no other way out but death. He awaited his own death, confident that he should die for his sins. No time to repent as he hit the slicing waters.
“Did you hear about that couple that jumped off the bridge?” said one fat man in a café as he neatly folds his moralizing newspaper.
“Sure did. Something about her going in first then him going in after. Did they ever find out why?” replied a skinny looking business man who folded his less informative newspaper.
“It was all over the news for a week. As soon as they found her body they stopped caring.”
“So they didn’t find his body then?”
“No, and I doubt it’ll turn up either. No one cares to look anymore.”
“Hmm…”
“Hmm...”
As their conversation ends, they sort out the money for their bill and leave both their money and their newsparers.
He walks into a dark hall and flicks the switch out of habit. He kicks himself mentally when no light escapes the lifeless bulb.
“Damn, I forgot to get a replacement bulb again. If she’d just reminded me.”
He’d promised to get a replacement bulb, over a week now. He could never remember to get one from the garage when he put some petrol in the car; work was always on his mind. She could remind him in the morning then maybe he would remember.
Sighing, he puts his briefcase down, next to the growing collection of bills with final reminders written boldly in letters of red, still unopened and slides through to the living room.
“Hello? I’m home!”
He waits for a reply, finding it strange that all of the lights were out and the curtains were still open. The T.V. was on stand by, as he’d left it that morning and the chairs were as tidily arranged as before.
“Anybody here?”
Impatiently, he reaches for the light switch and flicks it on and he cringes with the intense light.
“I don’t think she’s been home yet.” He thinks anxiously.
“I hope everything is alright.”
With the house so quiet, he notices the clock ticking noisily. It’s funny, that he’d never noticed it before. The television usually downs it out or the sound of their arguing muffles its noisy ticking.
“7 o’clock…Where are you?”
He wanders over to the curtains and draws them to a concealing close.
“Don’t want the neighbours thinking that something is wrong.”
Everything seems to be in place but the odd picture was at a different angle, but nothing to worry about. He picks a picture up and looks at it fondly and a faint worried smile appears on his concerned face. A picture of him and his wife, back then. When you they looked and argued over a picture like this, they had only thought of the good things at that time; they had compared it to the present and imagined that that things were much better then. Unsure himself, he places the picture back in its place on the mantelpiece.
“What’s this?”
He spies a piece of paper on the table, folded neatly. Picking it up he unfolds it, his hands shaking. He catches his breath as he reads it aloud.
“On the bridge of our first meeting you might find me for one final journey. Say you’ll join me?”
He drops the paper, letting it fall to the ground. It folds itself up as it twirls to the ground, bouncing off the floor untidily. His shaking hands find his mouth and he places a nervous hand over an expression of distorted anxiety as he passes a few scattered thoughts through his pulsing mind.
“What does she mean?”
He turns around, leaving the light on and grabs his car keys. He felt no reason to explore the rest of the house. It wasn’t a home to him: just a place to come back from work to.
“Where did she go?“
Wondering where he should go, he decides to take her meaning literally and head to the large bridge over the sea.
“Is she trying something romantic or something? I don’t know, I just don’t know.”
Struggling to get the keys into the car door he scratches the paint.
“Shit, that’ll start to rust!”
He licks his finger and rubs at the scratch and tuts. Finding the keyhole he opens the door; annoyed at himself for being so careless with his expensive car. He checks himself in the mirror then distraughtly reverses out onto the road. Sighing, he looks back at the house again. He bites his lip as he thinks of the violence that has ensued in that place: violence he had caused. Why did he do that to her? He couldn’t find a good reason for it. He just did it. He found it a way to relieve himself of anger and stress. Why didn’t she try to stop him? He had so many questions now. Did he doubt himself?
Checking himself in the mirror again he curses as the lights ahead of him tell him to stop. He’d been too distracted to notice and slams on the breaks. His heart thumps as he looks over at the bonnet. He must have been millimetres away from the car in front. He sinks back in the chair and sighs. As the lights change back to green he heads towards the bridge. It was a cold night and he hoped she was wearing something warm. He didn’t want her to catch her death of cold. He loved her, although she probably didn’t think so. Not now; not after the things he’d done. Had he lost her forever, or was this a last chance to repent?
As he pulls up to the bridge, he expects to see her standing there, waiting for him. The bridge went on too far into the darkness to see her and his heart sinks. Driving a little too fast, angry drivers show their unimpressed opinions as they sound their horns. He barely notices them as something less familiar catches his eye. Bringing the car to a halt he jumps out. He leaves the car running and starts to run himself. His wife, alone in her wedding dress, was standing on the edge of the bridge. A few curious, judging glances stole the view as they drove by in their own protective unawareness.
“She wouldn’t!”
Shaking is head in disbelief, tears sting his eyes. She leans forwards, her dress rippling in the steady sea wind. He runs forwards, realising he wasn’t going to reach her in time. His crisp tie creases in his panicked dash. Stretching a desperate arm forwards he keeps running. Burdened with an immense guilt as he grabs at her dress, she plunges from his fraught sight. In his hand is a shred of her dress. Bewildered, he stares into the darkness below.
“She didn’t! This can’t be!”
In disbelief, he grips the shred of dress and leans against the railing. Reaching down, hoping that she would grab his hand, he hears nothing. The sound of inquisitive cars disperse, the sound of the wind in his ears fades away. He felt nothing but sorrow and guilt. He had driven her to this. If he’d cared more, if he’d just stopped when she was crying out for him to lower his hand. Why didn’t he? It was too late to repent now. She was gone. This was it. All his fault.
He can barely see through the salty tears in his eyes as he climbs onto the railings. A few cars slow down to stare, but none stop to gape. Closing his eyes, he grips the shred of her dress and leans forwards. The wind rushes past him and for a moment he is scared, scared for the sins he had committed and the punishment he would receive for them after death. He didn’t care: he deserved all he got. He was a terrible husband and he had caused her so much pain that she had no other way out but death. He awaited his own death, confident that he should die for his sins. No time to repent as he hit the slicing waters.
“Did you hear about that couple that jumped off the bridge?” said one fat man in a café as he neatly folds his moralizing newspaper.
“Sure did. Something about her going in first then him going in after. Did they ever find out why?” replied a skinny looking business man who folded his less informative newspaper.
“It was all over the news for a week. As soon as they found her body they stopped caring.”
“So they didn’t find his body then?”
“No, and I doubt it’ll turn up either. No one cares to look anymore.”
“Hmm…”
“Hmm...”
As their conversation ends, they sort out the money for their bill and leave both their money and their newsparers.