Digging
Tap. Tap. Click.
No.
She cranks the wheel and slams it to its original position on the left side of the page. The blank paper stares back at her. She wonders why a blank page haunts more than anything else in the world.
She wraps her arms around her middle, her chemise clinging to her softened skin. She turns in her chair and looks over her shoulder. He slept so sweetly in the lamplight, undisturbed, with his arms still out, cradling her outline in the sheets.
She turns back to the typewriter slowly. The blank paper looms over her head now, darkening her aura. She stands from the oak desk, glowering at the typewriter through misty eyes as she backs away. She tiptoes around the bed. He doesn’t stir.
She takes the lift down and walks outside, ignoring the midnight guard’s wanton stares at her silk chemise. She wanders out the door.
The air is cold tonight. She embraces herself against the breeze as the hair on her arms begins to rise. She floats into the garden. The grass is damp and spiky on her bare feet. She steps around slowly, humming no tune in particular, something she made up. She glances up at the sky, squinting past the feathery clouds, wishing she could see just one star through the city’s lights.
She looks down at the foliage. The flowers are tucked in for the night, she thinks, but they’ll blossom in the morning.
Biting her lip gently, she raises her gown, as if it’s long enough to brush the dirt that now collects on her calloused heels. She steps in the middle of the vegetation. The soil is cool on her soles, soft between her curled toes. Like a grape harvester, she walks around the garden, planting herself wherever she’ll fit. She stops in a pleasant spot by a rose bush.
The metal gate to the garden squeals open. She looks up.
He smiles, more concerned than charmed when he’d awakened and found her here.
“What are you doing out here?”
She looks back down at the soil, deepening herself in it, sowing her talent.
“Digging.”
No.
She cranks the wheel and slams it to its original position on the left side of the page. The blank paper stares back at her. She wonders why a blank page haunts more than anything else in the world.
She wraps her arms around her middle, her chemise clinging to her softened skin. She turns in her chair and looks over her shoulder. He slept so sweetly in the lamplight, undisturbed, with his arms still out, cradling her outline in the sheets.
She turns back to the typewriter slowly. The blank paper looms over her head now, darkening her aura. She stands from the oak desk, glowering at the typewriter through misty eyes as she backs away. She tiptoes around the bed. He doesn’t stir.
She takes the lift down and walks outside, ignoring the midnight guard’s wanton stares at her silk chemise. She wanders out the door.
The air is cold tonight. She embraces herself against the breeze as the hair on her arms begins to rise. She floats into the garden. The grass is damp and spiky on her bare feet. She steps around slowly, humming no tune in particular, something she made up. She glances up at the sky, squinting past the feathery clouds, wishing she could see just one star through the city’s lights.
She looks down at the foliage. The flowers are tucked in for the night, she thinks, but they’ll blossom in the morning.
Biting her lip gently, she raises her gown, as if it’s long enough to brush the dirt that now collects on her calloused heels. She steps in the middle of the vegetation. The soil is cool on her soles, soft between her curled toes. Like a grape harvester, she walks around the garden, planting herself wherever she’ll fit. She stops in a pleasant spot by a rose bush.
The metal gate to the garden squeals open. She looks up.
He smiles, more concerned than charmed when he’d awakened and found her here.
“What are you doing out here?”
She looks back down at the soil, deepening herself in it, sowing her talent.
“Digging.”
Labels: writing
posted by Vonetta Young at 9:29 PM
2 comments
