She sat there silently, completing her stitch as she heard him in the talking to his friend. "You're seeing it right? How impossible she is? What was it that happened that she left me to live separately now?" She leaned gently on the window. "I can't with her.. just.." He is still ranting.
The next couple of days was a repeat of the same beats. She would seat herself, he would be talking to his friend, complaining; his friend, whom she could never hear talking. Argh. "You know her right? Always giving the silent treatment to me, expecting me to go and beg her." She shook her head and took a deep sigh. "She didn't bring the kids between this, they are still splitting half week here and at her place." He was continuing to explain to his friend. Her eyes widened and she nodded to herself as she heard it. She almost said something but stopped herself short as she heard him again, her heart breaking this time.
"She isn't speaking to me at all. I wish she would." His voice was breaking. "She is the first person I feel like sharing anything with. I wish she would just talk to me." She couldn't hold her tears back as she heard it. I wish she would talk to you as well. She wrapped her knitting, wiped her unseen tears and closed the window, hoping the stranger she has been hearing downstairs would have his happy ending.
About the Creator
A Minute Lost
I don’t remember the date. I do recall that it was the summer, whether or not it was June, July, or August; it doesn’t really matter. The year was 2003. It was hot. It was South Texas hot. It was San Antonio with no wind hot. For those reading this and wondering, well, how sweltering could it possibly get in San Antonio, Texas? A quick Google search placed the average temperatures of well over ninety degrees Fahrenheit, sometimes hitting triple digits, along with a hundred percent humidity. It's quite commonplace in South Texas. The takeaway from this beginning is that it wasn’t the best backdrop for what I was asked to do that day. I won’t get too much into the macro explanation or the overall arching motivation as to why I was asked to do this one thing, but I was invited to run an undisclosed distance with a group of others as a way to observe the state of my physical prowess at that current time to gauge whether or not I needed to improve or if I met a certain standard set by an organization. Now, at the time, I considered myself a decently athletic individual. A simple run around the block shouldn’t have been too difficult, so I blew it off. I chalked it up to a jog I didn’t need to prep for. I used to do these all the time. I did this all the time because I enjoyed running. If you talk to avid runners, some might mention a phenomenon known as the “runners high.” It is a place of euphoria that some runners experience when placed in a strenuous physical state for long periods of time. Nothing no longer mattered when I would slowly climb into the runner's high. It was just me, my breathing, my music, and my empty thoughts. It was myself versus distance. The lactic acid burn and occasional muscle pump were addicting.
By Anthony Diaz4 days ago in Fiction
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