Waiting (2)

She lifted her head from the desk, scratched the semi-dried drool from the corner of her mouth, and blinked against the dead white glare of the fluorescent lights. There was no daylight left outside the office window. The yellow of the street lights was oddly depressing. She rubbed her face and tried to wake up properly.

Standing, she almost sat straight back down again. Too quick, the blood rushed to her head, the change in internal pressure causing her to feel dizzy. She steadied herself against the edge of the desk.

Outside, wrapped against the bite of the wind, she huddled and almost charged her way down the street to the bus stop. The bus journey would take at least 40 minutes at this time of night. She knew she would doze, probably invade the space of whatever person was crammed next to her. She didn’t care. This tiredness was almost permanent now, and any snatch of sleep she could get was welcome.

Blank and aching, she walked up the path to her front door. She barely remembered getting on the bus, and had woken seconds before it pulled away again from her stop. Her key slid awkwardly into the lock, jamming slightly and catching as she turned it. It needed seeing to. Like so many things in this house, in her life.

The house was in darkness, and she moved from room to room, leaving a blaze of halogen behind her as she progressed from hall, to lounge, to dining room, to kitchen, shedding layers of clothing as she went.

Sitting at the kitchen table with a freshly brewed mug of tea, she slowly began to thaw. In spite of hat and gloves, her head and hands felt numb. The middle distance was a place she had heard of, and her eyes rested there now. There was nothing to see there, its boundaries blurred, its contents blurrier. Inside her head was a feeling like cottonwool. Blood pounded at her temples, her eyes wanted to close, their lids as heavy as roller shutter doors.

She started. He had let the door bang shut behind him and was even now removing his coat in the hall. Noisy. Unnecessary. Her tea was cold and its surface looked greasy. She decided she would learn to rinse the dishes properly to avoid this in future.

Here he came, rushing and thundering through the house on his legs like treetrunks. Briefcase flung onto a sofa, post scattered across the dining table, followed by keys. A clattering whirl of heat and presence, he arrived in the kitchen, where she still sat at the table, something new and cold resting in her head.

He spoke. Something. She didn’t listen. He stood, hip cocked, arms raised, body leaning, peering, face lit by the ice white light of the open fridge. Slam of the door. Bang of the cupboards, opening, closing, searching, seeking.

Cold metal in her hand, alien yet comforting. Her hand gripped the scored metal, her finger rested against the trigger. Hidden underneath the table. She tested the muscles in her arm. Like sitting on the bus, doing pelvic floor exercises.

She raised her arm. His back was turned. This was the coward’s way. She waited, finger ready to squeeze. She waited.

Waking, she lifted her head from the table and blinked against the humming lights of her kitchen as the front door opened and her husband shouted his arrival.

Next time, she wouldn’t wait.

© J R Hargreaves 2005