by Michael. B

Created on: June 02, 2008   Last Updated: June 09, 2008

Heavy Hearts & Hosta's

I had my back to her, glancing out past my reflection in the window, at the hosta's in the front flowerbed - they needed pruning. I noticed the striking single detail of my mouth moving in the glass.

Listen to me Jane, I just can't do this anymore. Getting through to you is like drilling a hole in concrete with a pen! Look at us - I can't even talk to you without shouting.'

Oh that's it Alan, blame me, you just don't get it do you? It's all about you, all about how poor Alan feels; you never once stop to think about me. What about how I might feel? Do you ever think of that, no, you don't even consider- '

I have to go to work Jane, you know I do, I'm going now, I said, bye, cutting her off mid-sentence as I dashed for the door. I stepped outside on the path and gently pulled the handle behind me, but even that soft gesture didn't last, and in a blind fury, she snatched the door open again, just to make her point by pounding it shut, she shouted out venomously;

If you leave now, it's over Alan, I mean it, I won't be here when you get back Alan...'

I'd barely swung my legs into the car, when, crash, the pane on the driver's door shook as the front door near sprang off its hinges.

I had heard those exact words a million times and proceeded to purr the engine up and roar off just to get away; there was no way I would be spoken to like that, I thought, just no way. The tiresome droning feeling of being relentlessly manipulated by such pathetic insecurity, God it had to stop.

I arrived in work as usual, not exactly in the most glowing moods, but hey, such is life, I had to go. I settled down easily to my work, yet, there was still something there, niggling at me constantly, prohibiting me from giving it my full. I sensed the un-comfort of my hands sweat and felt the trimmings of a migraine form. My entire, usually zestful workday went by slowly, spiritless and uneasy. My boss cornered me at lunchtime.

Hey Al, he said, swinging in my direction, my God, what's biting at you, not having spousal difficulties are we? He laughed, you look like hell.'

Thanks, you've no idea' I meekly replied, annoyed at how sharp he was or how quickly he'd read me or how transparent I allowed my very soul to be. The realization then struck like a ten ton weight; if he'd noticed in just a few seconds, how many others guessed what was going on? How many colleagues made mental accusations and rustled it together that I was taking my home and my personal life to work with me,

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