She has a crush on November,
All pretense of cheerfulness drizzling away, as a cigarette-butt slowly floating down the gutter.
She draws the blinds, ceasing to cover her bruises with Mary Quant foundation.
Safe from gossip she sighs.
She pretends that if HE came home HE wouldn’t be drunk, that HE might not be disgusted with meatloaf telling her how ghastly she is.
Alone, with November, there is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles for change; for her to take charge.
She is powerful, strong
She goes for HIS gun.
She’s assured by its weight but today HE comes home …
HE is sober… another day… maybe…
She puts the gun back in the nightstand and tiptoes to greet HIM.
“Honey”, she purrs.
“I smell meatloaf”, HE answers.
They kiss, pretend that it’s May.
November withdraws back to his shadows
Merril host Prosery at dVerse and we are to write a story of no more than 144 words using the lines:
“there is nothing behind the wall
except a space where the wind whistles”
from “Drawings By Children” by Lisel Mueller
This seems to fit with a November image where nothing really happens today… maybe tomorrow.
November 9, 2020