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| Tuesday, June 27, 2006 |
| One, II |
Marnie slumps back into a tired, restless trance. He thinks she's asleep, doesn't dare move.
Her watch tells him he has 15 minutes left.
A girl.
The blue coat across the hall slides off the chair, and the legs appear, attached to a body in the doorway across the hall. Nik raises his eyes up her body to her face. She's tired. He can see she's as tired as he is. Bone weary, sick of waiting, sick of doctors and nurses and wires and clocks and waiting, always waiting for something to finally happen.
Vigils for the dead (or dying) suck the life out of everyone.
She's tall, and awkward. She bends over a lot to avoid things, slumps to not seem so tall next to men. She spends her life changing, adjusting. She ducks under the doorway, and finally sees him across the hall.
For a minute, they know each other. She doesn't have to say "My husband, my child, my lover, my friend, is dying, and there isn't a goddammed thing I can do." She doesn't have to say " I just want them to die already, so I can get on with the business of my life." She doesn't have to say, "I'll never, ever be the same ever again."
She brushes her dark hair from her face, smiles weakly, and strides away. Nik starts to stand, thinks better of it, starting at Marnie.
5 more minutes. Will she know? Will she notice if he goes now?
He grabs his coat, kisses her lightly, murmuring the things he knows he should say. Does she hear? Her eyes seem to flutter open for a moment, and she sighs, but that could just be the morphine. He pulls his hand down the side of her face, like he's trying to hold on. The he darts out the door.
Blue is standing at the nurses station. She turns and sees him, smiles.
"My husband." she says briefly.
'My wife" he replies.
Silently, the walk out of the building, and into the night. |
posted by thordora @ 7:51 AM  |
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Name: thordora
Home: Moncton, New Brunswick, Canada
About Me: Riding a Roller Coaster ridiculously trying to ream repeated rounded consonants out.
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Awhile back, a friend and I decided that Radishes, while pretty cool, are never the first pick on the plate, and you certainly can never eat a lot of them. Certain people also fit this criteria. The writings as a byproduct of my manic periods are my radishes.
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