Writing Practice On A Friday Morning

           

            As I often do, I began this piece with a first line. I had no idea where it would take me. Below is the result.

When the day ended with the sun slipping beyond the horizon in a blaze of pink and orange, Mary was satisfied. And why shouldn’t she be? She had accomplished everything she had wanted, including telling James he no longer belonged in her life. It had not been an easy decision, but now that it was done, she was filled with an alien, but luscious, sense of calm.

Theirs had been a calamitous coupling from the start. James was incapable of friendship. It was lust that drove him and though Mary reciprocated happily at first, in time she was left spent and alone. When he was done with her, day after day after day, he headed for work as a dock supervisor at the cannery only five miles down the road. He came home late . . . often . . . smelling of whisky and women Mary did not know. On weekends he escaped to the river, his fly rod in one hand, and a cooler of brews in the other. For endless hours he frittered his time away from her, coming home tipsy, sunburned, and angry. Mary had no idea why. No matter now.

For three years she had endured his demands, his belligerence, his curses, and the cold stares that made her fidget, her hands finding each other, fingers folding together like old friends. In time she learned to expect what surely followed . . . the palpitations, the rapid eye movement, a sweaty brow, and a voice as silent as the dead. As with James, Mary’s body betrayed her. That was until today.

Today had been different. She had awakened with a purpose: to face the truth. It was over. When James stirred beside her, before reaching out for the morning ritual, she moved away.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

Mary stood her ground. “We’re done,” she said. “You leave now, James. I don’t want you here.”

He stared at her as though he had been struck, his mouth twisting into an ugly snarl for a moment before it eased into a pouty frown. He was not stupid. He understood, soberly agreeing without a word. In only minutes he had pulled on his trousers, thrown on a shirt and jacket, sauntered silently to his pickup truck, and was gone.

“I’ll pack up your things,” Mary said behind him. “They’ll be on the porch.”

The boxes of his belongings disappeared days later. Mary did not see James again. It was as simple as that.