From the Window

Jan 31, 2012

She shuddered as the November wind hit her back.  The weather had been damp the last few days and a break in the clouds would be well appreciated.  Pulling the trench up around her neck and fiddling with the red scarf at her neck did little to cut the icy wind. 

            A loud scraping noise broke off her inward thoughts and brought her gaze up with a start.  The rational part of her brain told her it was just the empty branches of the oak in their usual violent dance.  Wicker Street was always windy due to its proximity to the waterfront.  The coming snowstorm made it no different than usual. 

            Knowing the source of the sound seemed to be of no ease to her frazzled nerves.  A large gust and then a snap sent a scattering of sticks and then a rather large branch raining down on the sidewalk just before her.  It had been foolish to wear heels today.  Heather decided to double-time it to the safety of the open sky again. 

Her body shaking now more in reaction to the near miss of the fallen branch and than the cold, she pulled the tall collar of her coat round her even tighter.  Glancing up at the trees hovering over the walk, Heather’s eyes passed over the drab gray house once again just as she did daily.  So many good memories there.  No longer beneath the large oaks now, she could slow up a bit.  She had time.

Just a pause, she thought, a ritual of reflection.  In her mind’s eye the tattered curtains, barely visible from the dirty glass picture window, had become new lace once again, tied back by those canary yellow cords.  She had always taken care of the house. 

As she turned and clutched the rusted wrought iron gate, it hit her.  There was a yellow glow of incandescent bulbs coming from the foyer inside.  He was home.  Even better.

He would be sitting with his coffee right about now at the kitchen table doing his crossword in the Times, waiting for supper once again.  No longer.  Those days were done. 

She clenched cold metal, not so cold now, but warming to her hands.  He likely wouldn’t see her in the darkness.  The yard was large and poorly lit in the waning light of dusk.  These days were different.  This day was different.

The yellow glow was joined suddenly with a burst of bright orange, then shortly with a loud blast.  She turned away as the glass gave way in a rush of explosive fury.

As the acrid smoke escaped the shattered window, a smile crossed her lips.  Pulling the tube of red lipstick from her pocket, she eagerly applied it to her lips.  If she couldn’t have the place then neither could he.  Burn baby burn.