Monday, October 17, 2005
Stage Two, Where I try to do something besides think about the wedding
Sat down tonight to write for the first time in three weeks. I thought I'd follow behind my dad and aunt and post what I'm working on right now. A little rusty, but:
In the final days before her divorce, Moira spent most of her time watching her new television. It was the fanciest set offered, ordered from a Sears catalog, and delivered by a man to whom she lied and said that her husband was away on business. It was black and white, and later when she would think back on this time, it would seem that her whole life then had existed in the static of gray. She was depressed, although she hadn't really noticed.
The television, which she called the Tee Vee, pronouncing each syllable with such deliberate force that unbeknownst to her it sounded almost ridiculous, was just one symptom. She'd never watched it before, had never even had an interest, and suddenly her days revolved around Lucy and Gidget, women who would have dulled her under previous circumstances.
In the mornings she got up and put on a pair of denim slacks. She knew they were really only acceptable to wear if she planned to spend time in the garden, and so most days as she put them on, she thought to herself that she would do just that, but then never did. Instead, she made herself eggs, two, scrambled, which she bought from the market down the street that received them fresh every morning at 8:45. The eggs and a piece of toast, just black enough to fill the kitchen with the smell of something burning. She'd take the plate into the living room, and rest it carefully on her knees, eating as delicately as she could while taking in the first of her programs for the day. Sometimes the smell of the burnt toast would remain in the kitchen until the afternoon. It comforted her in some way, as if it made the house more full and lived in than her body alone could manage.
In the end it was Moira who had wanted the divorce. Luke, for all his many flaws, was a man of honor who had not wanted Moira to feel the shame divorced women were subjected to.
“We can go on like this,” he’d said.
But she’d heard something different, and so in return she’d said he was right. ”We can’t. We can’t do this anymore.”
It was months before he corrected her.
Posted by Lindsey at 6:50 PM