A short story by Margie
A high school English teacher once told me that I had a real talent for writing. She encouraged me to pursue a career in that field and told me "I look forward to seeing your work in the bookstores some day." While I was flattered by her words, I never really believed that I have what it takes to be a writer. Nevertheless, I write short stories from time to time and often have a plot line brewing in my mind. Below is the beginning of one of those short stories floating around in my head. I just typed it up this morning. Feel free to tell me what you think.
She woke up abruptly from a dreamless sleep and waited for her eyes to get acclimated to the dark. The digital clock beside her read 5:30 and the sun had yet to make its grand appearance. She laid there for a few minutes, debating whether to get up or attempt another round of sleep before the alarm would go off. The sleeping form beside her rustled, sighed and quieted again. She turned her head slowly to stare at his face and saw the back of his head. She was beginning to know that side of his head more than his face, it seemed.
It didn’t seem that long ago when they would sleep face to face, when she would wake up in the middle of the night to stare at him. In those days, she would sometimes wake up to find him already staring at her with that look in his eyes, as if he wanted to permanently brand her image into his memory. That was years ago but she would sometimes wonder if she just dreamt the whole thing.
On her way to work each day, she would see the same young couple riding the train to work. They were obviously in love and most likely newlyweds. He would have his arm around her, looking into her eyes, his one hand intertwined with hers. They would talk quietly to each other in the tiny space between them, oblivious to the rush hour world around them. She didn’t envy them their intimacy; in fact, she felt sorry for them because she knew the loving gestures would eventually fade into memory, to be recalled in quiet moments of sadness and regret. They were in the infant stage of their relationship and, like the progression of physical life, that relationship would eventually grow into maturity, slow down and die. Slowly but surely, expressions of love will be replaced with complacency. The one you couldn’t live without slowly becomes merely a stranger you live with. The loving gestures become fewer and, when they do, only because they are expected due to the date on the calendar. That loving look will be replaced with the occasional look of lust, when a physical need must be met. Romance, she now knew, has a very short and fragile lifespan.
The man beside her turned over in his sleep. She could see his face now, but only his profile. Soon the alarm will go off, pulling him forcefully out of his sleep. He will lay there for a few minutes, open his eyes and ask her, “What time are you leaving for work?” She will answer him, painfully aware: he doesn't know she has already left.
She woke up abruptly from a dreamless sleep and waited for her eyes to get acclimated to the dark. The digital clock beside her read 5:30 and the sun had yet to make its grand appearance. She laid there for a few minutes, debating whether to get up or attempt another round of sleep before the alarm would go off. The sleeping form beside her rustled, sighed and quieted again. She turned her head slowly to stare at his face and saw the back of his head. She was beginning to know that side of his head more than his face, it seemed.
It didn’t seem that long ago when they would sleep face to face, when she would wake up in the middle of the night to stare at him. In those days, she would sometimes wake up to find him already staring at her with that look in his eyes, as if he wanted to permanently brand her image into his memory. That was years ago but she would sometimes wonder if she just dreamt the whole thing.
On her way to work each day, she would see the same young couple riding the train to work. They were obviously in love and most likely newlyweds. He would have his arm around her, looking into her eyes, his one hand intertwined with hers. They would talk quietly to each other in the tiny space between them, oblivious to the rush hour world around them. She didn’t envy them their intimacy; in fact, she felt sorry for them because she knew the loving gestures would eventually fade into memory, to be recalled in quiet moments of sadness and regret. They were in the infant stage of their relationship and, like the progression of physical life, that relationship would eventually grow into maturity, slow down and die. Slowly but surely, expressions of love will be replaced with complacency. The one you couldn’t live without slowly becomes merely a stranger you live with. The loving gestures become fewer and, when they do, only because they are expected due to the date on the calendar. That loving look will be replaced with the occasional look of lust, when a physical need must be met. Romance, she now knew, has a very short and fragile lifespan.
The man beside her turned over in his sleep. She could see his face now, but only his profile. Soon the alarm will go off, pulling him forcefully out of his sleep. He will lay there for a few minutes, open his eyes and ask her, “What time are you leaving for work?” She will answer him, painfully aware: he doesn't know she has already left.
posted by Margie at 3:27 PM
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