From the novel Im writing: The day overtakes me on the threshold of her home, the look in her eyes, the knowing, all wither me. I break into tears. She pulls me into the house’s belly. Orders me to the flowered couch and says, “I’ll get some Earl Grey” which is her way of saying it was time to start talking. I tell her the details of the day. The papers. The monitor. Ellen’s anger. My shame. And she listens. Says nothing. Looks off into a distance I cannot see. My words fall like anvils from the sky, thudding into fresh grass, indenting it forever. The quiet between us is not comforting; in fact, it devastates me. I want to say something, as if there are magical words one can say to conjure up response from a lifelong friend, but the more I think of what to say, the more it sounds idiotic. Because what is there to say? Henry, yes, you screwed it all up. There is no do-over for this one. What do you expect me to say? She crosses one leg over the other on her easy chair, slender fingers around a cooling cup. Tears race her cheeks. She clears her throat, and I am mad with anticipation. She is going to speak. Except she doesn’t.
Posted on: Thu, 02 Oct 2014 19:51:10 +0000
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