A Stage
He left for work this morning at half past seven. There was one slice of toast left on the table. Next to it was the dirty coffee mug. There was Ron's smell in the kitchen, so profound and so real that she had to step away from the sink for a moment and cool her head.
The babies were still sleeping, but they would wake up and yell and cry again and there wouldn't be enough hot water in the world to make them shut up, to make them dream. Two babies could ruin her life. She loved them dearly, but during the day she wanted them to sleep and eat like little machines. She wanted them to read their thoughts and stay silent.
They didn't have many thoughts, so all they could do was cry in pain because their teeth were growing. She had to tell herself daily that she loved them more than anything in the world.
It wasn't true. She loved some of her dresses more than she loved little Rose. But she would never tell anyone, because no one needed to know. Because it didn't matter if she loved her children as long as Ron believed it, as long as she fed them and clothed them and didn't throw them away. You can't throw them away, but you can ignore them which would kill them, but she doesn't do that. she sits on the bed next to them and cries because they came out of her and she didn't want them to make a hole in her, a big hole that would never seal.
But for now she had to wash the dishes, warm up the bottles of milk and vacuum the living room. Then she'd go shopping and then she'd read a book. Then she'd call her office to see if they needed her but they usually said no and told her to go relax and take care of her two treasures. She'd insist that she was getting bored and she had nothing to do, but they wouldn't believe her. They'd make her stay home. And they'd hang up on her. And when that happened, she slammed the phone in the receiver and started yelling at it like he was to blame. She threw away the cushions on her sofa and she'd sink on the floor and read a magazine, disoriented.
She hugged little Rose to her chest in the afternoon and heard her soft breathing and wished she could pull the plug on a complicated operation.
She loved taking Rose and Hugo to the park. She loved to watch them smile in the sun and her love grew and she kissed them and she saw them rising from their prams and becoming young adults, beautiful and bright. They'd run away and leave her. But unlike some other people, she wasn't sad about that. They would be truly beautiful.
Although, whenever she walked with them in the park she remembered how stupid the names Hugo and Rose really were. Who had come up with these names? Had she been so blind as to name her only children Rose and Hugo? They sounded like compressed crap, like the pretentious, suburban, high-class, fake Christmas cards.
She choked on her tears every time she considered the name Alice. Oh, how wonderful! So then, why was her daughter called Rose?
In the evening, Ron would come home and he'd see her looking like a mess, in the cycle of the absurd, brushing off her own expectancies on life. She'd have black circles under her eyes even though she slept for hours on end.
And in the bed, she'd turn away from him and cry without tears and wish he had a hobby or a vice that would keep him from home. She wished he was in a bar somewhere and whenever he touched her she smiled and kissed his hand disgusted.
But this horrible stage would pass once she'd get back to work. She'd love her children again, she'd appreciate her husband and her home. And even her phone.
And then Hermione would forget that she's discontent with everything but herself.
She'd fall in step with the normal life that she always wanted.