Weekend Solitude
by Bast
(written for t100+ challenge)
Disclamer: character not mine--but dick's. ony the idea is mine.
he emerged
from the darkness of the house
to the sunlight of his garden
and, covering his hands with the yard gloves,
picked up the clippers and blinked
(she had gone to England again
her regular summer trip
this time taking the child along)
he began with the rose bushes
their delicate pink petals
unfolding with his breath
and each vibration of the ground around them
(they had a mutual agreement
a mature understanding
she pursued her interests
and he his)
his fingers deftly parted weeds to sort them
the movement of the handle in his palm
was sure and swift
(their relationship was perfect
free of jealousy and pettiness
free of emotion)
he moved down
the rows of flowers
snip. snip.
* * *
later he showered and watched t.v.
once he roused himself
from the plush rust colored chair
to fix a drink
(she was always leaving
the tops off decanters
or carelessly filling them
until they spilled)
the scotch was warm
he rolled it on his tongue
remembering her taste
(they had separate bank accounts
separate cars, and now even
separate bedrooms)
he dozed a bit
the ice in the glass melted down
clink. clink.
* * *
after a while he undressed for bed
propping himself on one elbow
he read the latest book
by a fashionable poet
the passion and violence of the words
disturbed him
(when they first met
he'd been impressed by her involvement
with equal rights and civic affairs
her eyes had burned
when she spoke of change
but only
when she spoke of change)
he closed the book
lit a cigar
watching the rings rise
larger and larger to the ceiling
he wondered idly
what time it was in London
and if his child remembered him
eventually he slept
the clock on the bedside table
counted away the minutes
tick. tick.
by Bast
(written for t100+ challenge)
Disclamer: character not mine--but dick's. ony the idea is mine.
he emerged
from the darkness of the house
to the sunlight of his garden
and, covering his hands with the yard gloves,
picked up the clippers and blinked
(she had gone to England again
her regular summer trip
this time taking the child along)
he began with the rose bushes
their delicate pink petals
unfolding with his breath
and each vibration of the ground around them
(they had a mutual agreement
a mature understanding
she pursued her interests
and he his)
his fingers deftly parted weeds to sort them
the movement of the handle in his palm
was sure and swift
(their relationship was perfect
free of jealousy and pettiness
free of emotion)
he moved down
the rows of flowers
snip. snip.
* * *
later he showered and watched t.v.
once he roused himself
from the plush rust colored chair
to fix a drink
(she was always leaving
the tops off decanters
or carelessly filling them
until they spilled)
the scotch was warm
he rolled it on his tongue
remembering her taste
(they had separate bank accounts
separate cars, and now even
separate bedrooms)
he dozed a bit
the ice in the glass melted down
clink. clink.
* * *
after a while he undressed for bed
propping himself on one elbow
he read the latest book
by a fashionable poet
the passion and violence of the words
disturbed him
(when they first met
he'd been impressed by her involvement
with equal rights and civic affairs
her eyes had burned
when she spoke of change
but only
when she spoke of change)
he closed the book
lit a cigar
watching the rings rise
larger and larger to the ceiling
he wondered idly
what time it was in London
and if his child remembered him
eventually he slept
the clock on the bedside table
counted away the minutes
tick. tick.