by M M Johns

Created on: April 07, 2010

Maria Martin turned from locking her '94 green Firebird. Not for her the new fangled devices, she liked the feel of turning a key in the door lock, as much as she did the manual transmission. She stepped back and looked at her pride and joy, it needed a wash and wax, the sides were streaked with signs of the last snows and slush disappearing off the roads. She turned at the sound of an aircraft and looked down into the valley watching a 747 nearing the runway. It seemed to hang motionless in the air for an eternity before it wheels touched the ground and it sped along the tarmac. The roar of the engines being put into reverse rushed up the hillside to assault her ears. Not for the first time she thought that they had to move. It was alright in the winter when the windows were closed, any noise from the busy airport was muted to a large extent, but, now as the weather warmed up and the windows were opened the noise was a nuisance.

She stood while the aircraft slowed and then taxied to the terminal building. She knew she was reluctant to go into the house, even though, from the absence of his car in the drive, she knew her husband of five years was not yet home from work. It had been a long time since she had felt the excitement of coming home to him. The routine of a kiss, a glass of wine and a talk about their resepective days work as she prepared dinner. Now she always wondered what the next argument would be about, nothing she did seemed to please him anymore, nothing she had to say interested him, he dismissed her as though she was employee in her own house, treating her worse than he would a maid. Lately she had begun to think that sometimes he deliberately provoked an argument to give himself the excuse to storm out of the house and disappear for the rest of the evening. When that happened he rarely returned before the early hours of the morning.

Maria could not even honestly say to herself that she still loved Andrew, never Andy, he hated that, always Andrew. She did know that he was driving any love she felt deep underground, the hurt and pain always at the forefront of her thinking. Then there was the guilt, was she causing this behaviour, was she doing something unwittingly to cause these reactions? She had tried everything she knew to get him to talk about what was bothering him. Always with the same result, either a blank wall or a furious argument.

Her closest friend, Louise, had told her that she believed Andrew was having an affair and the arguments

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