CITY ISLAND LINES
Usually up and about at this hour, she groaned and rolled onto her elbows. A tattered plastic bag trapped in a tree outside her window shimmied piteously. Basketballs bounced between her temples. Her tongue felt like a spoonful of desiccated oatmeal.
She had thought he might be different, genuine- not like the other Don Juan con artists. But waiting for him to call last night, she had been forced to drain a bottle of wine- alone. Thanks to the Pinot Grigio, she was now bedbound- too groggy to even contemplate rising. To compound her discomfort, the phone lit up beside her, clattering horribly as it vibrated on the bedside table. The final insult was seeing his picture – a picture of them both together- smiling affectionately at one another. She hesitated but could not resist the siren’s call. ‘What do you want,’ she barked hoarsely. ‘I wanted to see how you were. Really, I just wanted to see you. May I stop by?’ ‘Your timing is pretty lousy! Where were you last night, when you were supposed to “stop by”?’ ‘Didn’t you get my note? I left you a note. I had an urgent call from my father’s caretaker. They thought that he’d taken a turn for the worse, but everything was OK in the end. When I was finally able to leave the hospital, it was so late that I didn’t want to wake you—even though I really wanted to see you. I explained everything in the note.’ She desperately wanted to believe him, to let herself fall into his arms, into his soothing voice, into the undeniable comfort of him. But bitter experience pricked her dreamy balloon and snapped her back to reality. She clenched her jaw resolutely and said, ‘I’m not falling for another line. There’s no note here. You’re covering something up, and I have no time for more lies.’ ‘Please believe me, ‘ he pleaded. ‘Listen, let’s grab a coffee and talk this through.’ ‘Too little, too late. Timing is everything. We’re through!’ She snorted and hung up on him. As she slouched off to the bathroom, a white fleck caught her bleary eye. Wedged under the doormat was a slip of paper- one tiny corner peeping out. Timing really is everything she thought ruefully. 9 April 2019
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She woke blanketed and bound by heavy darkness. She was not afraid of the dark - never had been. In fact, she found that it sharpened her other senses and opened different windows on the world.
Though her lids felt leaden, sleep would not come. An inveterate insomniac, she knew better than to try. So she settled herself and let her mind float, seeking different sensory channels. She listened but could hear almost nothing. What little sound reached her was dull and muffled. Almost like mournful music. So, abandoning sight and sound, she honed in on aroma. Adrift she was carried on a current of scents that seemed somehow linked to one another -and to her. The initial concoctions were mouth-watering. The savoury smell of olive oil, garlic and rosemary. The earthy nose of red wine. The irresistible fragrance of freshly baked bread. All of this was suffused with the waxy warmth of candles. She could almost feel velvety butter melting on her tongue. She could also smell the familiar cocktail of her husband: his warm skin, his woody scent, his affection, his desire. And there was the tender perfume of fresh roses that he had given her. Love. She sighed and settled again. The next thing to hit her nose was the wool blanket and worn leather seats of their car. The whiff of happy wet dogs. Cosy, comforting. Suddenly, the stinging stench of fire, burning rubber, burning petrol, burning everything. The smell of danger, damage, destruction. Then a different smoky stink. The smell of ash-infused skin and clothing, of too many cigarettes smoked. This was incongruously paired with an astringent odour. Rubbing alcohol, industrial detergent, formaldhyde, disinfectant. Ominously sterile. For a brief moment, she smelled nothing. Complete scentlessness. And then she was struck by a deluge of hankerchiefs and lilies. The heavy fragrance of grief. It was wretched. ‘WhereamI ?’she wondered. ‘At the funeral,’ came the unexpected reply. ‘Whose funeral?’ she responded reflexively. ‘Yours, of course ‘ 5 March 2019 |
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