A Sweet Suspended Moment (standard:other, 1498 words)
Author: Gavin J. Carr	Added: Nov 16 2005	Views/Reads: 3309/2189	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
There’s always something around the corner waiting to ambush you, some memory, or unexpected memento.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle.  A cup of tea was 
what she needed – that uniquely British solution to all life's 
problems. 

The kitchen was scrupulously clean.  The worktops were gleaming, the
floor polished and shining in the thin morning light.  It was another 
indication of Bill's absence, she thought.  When he'd been alive the 
kitchen had been the busiest room in the house.  Bill had liked to 
pretend he could cook, although his culinary skills never went beyond 
pasta and the odd, greasy stir-fry, and he'd inevitably leave the room 
in disarray.  Whenever he'd finished one of his ‘masterpieces' it would 
be she who would be left to clean up, a fact that had irked her at the 
time.  She would give anything to have him with her now, making a mess 
for her to tidy.  But the kitchen was neat, almost desolate and she 
suddenly felt lonely, a lone traveller in a Formica desert. 

She made her tea and took a sip.  It was tasteless.  She got some rags
from beneath the sink and took the plastic bucket from the cupboard.  
She'd busy herself by cleaning the windows she decided.  It was a job 
she'd always hated, but which she now looked forward to – a pathetic 
penance, atonement for still being alive. 

She started with the kitchen window, looking out into the back garden as
she soaped the pane.  Winter was coming to an end and the grey sky was 
mottled, the odd ray of washed-out sunlight lancing through the clouds. 
 The sunlight was far from warm, but it was enough to melt the snow 
that had fallen the week before last.  Now only a few patches remained 
on the grass, the once virginal whiteness corrupted by the brown smear 
of mud. 

She rinsed the window pane and buffed it to a shine.  She poured the
dirty water down the sink and refilled the bucket.  She'd do the living 
room window next. 

The curtains were closed and she placed the bucket carefully on the
coffee table while she opened the sash.  When she turned around she saw 
Bill's slippers, lying by his seat in front of the television and for a 
second she thought she would start crying again.  But somehow she 
managed to control herself and picked up the bucket and took it to the 
window. 

She began soaping the window pane, putting a vigour into the task which
she did not feel.  What was it they used to say in the concentration 
camps?  Work will set you free?  Perhaps there was something in that, 
she thought. 

It wasn't until she began to rinse that she looked through the glass to
the scene beyond.  Immediately she stopped what she was doing, dropping 
the cloth into the bucket with a splash. 

Here, in the front garden, the snow was also melting.  The week before
it had fallen over a foot deep, obscuring the neatly turned flower 
borders and half covering the picket fence.  The morning after the 
worst of the drifts, Bill had gone outside.  It was a Saturday and as 
she lay in bed her husband had been busy.  She had awaked to a thump on 
the bedroom window and had opened her eyes, thinking she had imagined 
the sound.  After a few seconds there was another thump, and she had 
got up and went to see what was happening. 

The world outside had turned into an artic landscape.  Icicles hung from
the nearby lampposts and the cars parked in the street wore heavy 
blankets of pristine snow.  Below, in her garden, Bill looked up and 
waved, throwing a snowball.  He was such a big kid, she thought.  He 
had built a snowman.  A huge, lop-sided monstrosity wearing one of 
Bill's baseball caps and sporting a wide, cock-eyed grin made from 
pebbles. 

She had laughed at the time, but wasn't laughing now.  The snowman was
still there.  While everything around it was in a state of decay, 
disappearing with the passing of the season, it alone was unchanged.  
It still wore that cock-eyed gin, not so much as a single pebble fallen 
from its mouth.  What had been charming a few days ago now seemed 
sinister and heart breaking. 

What sort of a world was it when something so transitory could outlive
its maker?  It was a joke.  A sick, perverted joke. 

And now she was crying.  She had thought she was doing so well, but it
just went to show you, she thought.  There's always something around 
the corner waiting to ambush you, some memory, or unexpected memento. 
She shut the curtains and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.  Turning 
around she went back up the stairs and into the bedroom, climbing under 
the covers that she had left not so long ago. 

As she closed her eyes she prayed.  Prayed for that sweet suspended
moment, after sleep but before wakefulness, when the memories didn't 
come. 

The End. 


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