Your theme this week is to weave the lyrics of a song into a story. Break from the norm; spin me a new song; a story unforgettable and relatable.
So my extended entry to the one posted to 100_words community this week. Thought it would be a way to finally knock down my massive writer's block that has been going on and off for a year. See if you like it, I do, actually.
Remember when you left in the morning at daybreak
So silent you stole from my bed
To go back to the one who possesses your soul
- Sarah McLachlan
OF DECEIT, POISON AND POSSIBLE DANGER
Sometimes, when he gathers clothing from the floor, casually picks up the half-full beer can from where he left it last night and stalks into the too-small bathroom, she wonders if she will pick up the phone. Hear the detached ringing, luxuriate in the softness of the voice on the line then listen as it ruptures into tinny pieces. Or maybe she will order a baby boy from somewhere, with the exact blond hair and ice-grey eyes and show up on their doorstep, watch her perfect throat constrict on ‘hellos’, watch her manicured fingers clutch the doorframe with white knuckles.
He steps out, careful, closed, clean, leaves his towel on the back of a hard-backed chair. Opens his mouth then pauses, lips harden into a thin line, as her fingers curl slightly around the shell of the phone.
“I was calling for a pizza,” she answers the unasked question.
He says nothing, lets the lie hang in the noxious silence.
“Pepperoni? Anchovies?” she giggles uncertainly.
He turns, bends down to pick up the leather briefcase, dusts it slightly. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Noise streams in from outside as he lets himself out the door. On the phone, the voice asks, pleasantly, “Hello? Hellooo, is anyone there?”
She leans over and yanks out the phone-cord harshly. The plastic cords burn her palms. Picking out the last cigarette stick from the box, she lights it and inhales deeply. With her free hand, she pulls off the pillowcase from his pillow and places it carefully inside the cupboard.
It is one-hundred-forty-five and counting. Briefly, she wonders if he will notice the smudge of black mascara she left on the inside of his shirt.