by Valerie Stelck

Created on: April 14, 2009   Last Updated: March 03, 2012

Neglect

They had each entered the kitchen through opposing doorways. He descended the twelve stairs from the second storey of the house with duffel bag in hand. She entered from the basement with a basket full of anemic, threadbare towels. Their heated redolent aura was impalpable.

She set the wicker basket on the floor and shuffled to the sink. Her old green flip-flops, which she wore year round, made a whishing sound as they connected with the floor. The cheerless beige kitchen surrounded her with an indifferent aspect. A wallpaper border of Canada Geese circled the top of the room in endless flight. She glanced through the window above the sink. The view was hazy, obscured by moisture, because the seal had dried out years ago. The distorted vision of their small backyard irritated her and caused her to look away. She reached over to the stove for the stainless steel kettle. It mirrored her wrinkled, sallow skin.

Weariness had embraced her face, drawn out its length, and altered the skin below her eyes into deep purple depressions. She was dog-tired. The living room couch, where she slept, had been uncooperative last night. Her neck ached and muscle spasms shot up and down her spine. She sat down for a moment, easing herself into one of the wobbly kitchen chairs.

He was seated at the opposite end of the table from her but turned slightly to his right. Last year's calendar was tacked to the wall behind him. Its length shadowed the top of his head, an errant halo. Her eyes took in, and then dismissed, the duffel bag on the floor by his side. He was dressed for the day, his hair carefully styled, face ruddy. She could tell that he'd already had his morning shower and shave. She couldn't remember the name of his aftershave but there was a trace of its musky scent in the air.

She had allowed herself to melt into the essence of the house; a mute eidolon moving through its walls. The house in which she had spent twenty years of marriage. She was more married to it than to him. She knew that they had both done only enough maintenance to sustain their existence. Her eyes swept over to the stove, the kettle whistled impatiently. She got up and poured the boiling water into an old brown teapot.

She peered through the window, again. Her eyes were fixed, trance-like, upon the gloomy spring sky, a gray formless canvas. She dropped her eyes to the dirty melting snow pile, in the far west corner of the yard, a silent reminder of the difficult winter that had just passed.

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