Trevor was seated next to the broken remnants of the vacuum, clouds of dust floating onto his shoulders as he curled his knees to his chest. Veronica watched silently from the stairway as he began to rock back and forth. She could hear the stifled cries through the undulations, the soot hanging on his features like dirty tinsel. This is it, she thought. He's finally lost it. Three months of unemployment apparently could make a man crazy.
She stared as he continued to cry, totally affixed, as he sobbed on her living room floor, covered in filth. He began to pick up jagged pieces of plastic and throw them across the room. This ritual brought no relief; every time that he would chuck another piece against the wall, it landed with a small thwack, perhaps not the earth shattering destruction he had hoped to achieve. Another and another, but each piece only made a quiet thud. With each toss, he growled, but as the plastic made contact, he grew increasingly disappointed. At last, he reached the final piece, straining over the carpet to grip it in his sweaty palms. He gave it one last glance before throwing it towards the window. It made contact, a brief clink, then returned to the carpet amongst all the other discarded remains. And at that, he shook uncontrollably, wracked with sobs from this inherent defeat.
Veronica's heels tapped on the hardwood floor. She hadn't meant to sound impatient. She quickly jumped onto the carpet. Trevor looked up, eyes red from the dirt and hysterics. Standing across the room, staring into those eyes, she wondered what in the world he could be thinking. What made a man break down like that? Why was he sobbing instead of damaging the drywall? Those eyes, those red rimmed eyes, would not stop looking at her.
Something made her cross that room and take him into her arms. Her mind raced as she picked him up and held him, brushing the lint out of his hair and rubbing a hand along his back. It was instinctive, she told herself, she was nurturing because it was apart of her nature. She hated to see another human being in pain, least of all her husband. Her husband, her's. She repeated the word as Trevor continued to let tears soak her blouse. Her's, the possessive form of the pronoun. He was her possession, he belonged to her.
Veronica wondered if the inverse were true. Did she belong to him? Did he want her? From the looks of their tangled bodies, something seemed to say that this was where she was meant to be. She leaned down and kissed his cheek, tasting the grime but savoring the warmth. "I love you," she whispered. He stared up at her again, eyes wide, but only for a moment, before collapsing into tears once more.
She stared as he continued to cry, totally affixed, as he sobbed on her living room floor, covered in filth. He began to pick up jagged pieces of plastic and throw them across the room. This ritual brought no relief; every time that he would chuck another piece against the wall, it landed with a small thwack, perhaps not the earth shattering destruction he had hoped to achieve. Another and another, but each piece only made a quiet thud. With each toss, he growled, but as the plastic made contact, he grew increasingly disappointed. At last, he reached the final piece, straining over the carpet to grip it in his sweaty palms. He gave it one last glance before throwing it towards the window. It made contact, a brief clink, then returned to the carpet amongst all the other discarded remains. And at that, he shook uncontrollably, wracked with sobs from this inherent defeat.
Veronica's heels tapped on the hardwood floor. She hadn't meant to sound impatient. She quickly jumped onto the carpet. Trevor looked up, eyes red from the dirt and hysterics. Standing across the room, staring into those eyes, she wondered what in the world he could be thinking. What made a man break down like that? Why was he sobbing instead of damaging the drywall? Those eyes, those red rimmed eyes, would not stop looking at her.
Something made her cross that room and take him into her arms. Her mind raced as she picked him up and held him, brushing the lint out of his hair and rubbing a hand along his back. It was instinctive, she told herself, she was nurturing because it was apart of her nature. She hated to see another human being in pain, least of all her husband. Her husband, her's. She repeated the word as Trevor continued to let tears soak her blouse. Her's, the possessive form of the pronoun. He was her possession, he belonged to her.
Veronica wondered if the inverse were true. Did she belong to him? Did he want her? From the looks of their tangled bodies, something seemed to say that this was where she was meant to be. She leaned down and kissed his cheek, tasting the grime but savoring the warmth. "I love you," she whispered. He stared up at her again, eyes wide, but only for a moment, before collapsing into tears once more.
