Closing her eyes, she let the darkness permeate her vision. It was a comfortable empty space that she retreated into, silence, free from the sensation of hot tears and the whine of broken cries. She let herself by consumed by pure nothingness for a brief moment, only to be interrupted by footsteps once more. Trevor. The journal couldn't be placed on the shelf in time, that much she knew. It would have to be hidden temporarily. She would have to compose herself. Setting about the task of concealing the evidence, she shoved it behind the desk, letting it fall to the ground with a sharp plunk.
"Hey hun, whatcha doin?" Trevor placed his hands on the door frame, leaning in and peering around the space without any particular curiosity. Veronica smoothed two strands of hair out of her face, tucking them behind her ears and exhaling with a pained sigh.
"Not much." She got up from the chair and wandered over to the bookshelf. Her hands searched along the dusty spines. "Looking for a book."
"Oh. Want pasta for dinner?" Trevor ran his eyes along her profile, noting the wrinkles of her white polo, the bulge of skin over the waist of her jeans, a size too small. "I was gonna put on some water." He tapped the door frame along with an unknown rhythm. She glared at the sound's intrusion. She picked up "On Beauty."
Turning around, she nodded. "Sure. Sounds good." Mustering a feeble smile, she hoped that he wouldn't notice the way that her eyes had puffed up, the redness that gave them away. He furrowed his brow a bit, but he turned and made his way into the kitchen. Veronica breathed deeply for the first time in several minutes and waited another minute or so before going to retrieve the journal from its temporary refuge. There was a noticeable nick in the soft leather of the spine, a mark of her carelessness. It would serve as a reminder for future occasions, she would exercise more caution from now on.
Veronica began to wonder what constituted love. Was love the kind of unrequited longing that she wrote about daily in her journals or was love the simple act of asking what your wife would like to eat for dinner? Was love the sort of earth shattering, mind altering, foolish experience that had defined her youth or was love cooking for your spouse, or noticing when they had been crying but knowing not to ask until later? She had always struggled with the definition. She preferred to experience both sensations, though one never quite lived up to her expectations. Sliding the book onto the top shelf, she took note of the way that her wedding ring caught the light of the small desk lamp. She switched the light off and retreated into the kitchen, the scent of burnt pasta hurrying her stride.
"Hey hun, whatcha doin?" Trevor placed his hands on the door frame, leaning in and peering around the space without any particular curiosity. Veronica smoothed two strands of hair out of her face, tucking them behind her ears and exhaling with a pained sigh.
"Not much." She got up from the chair and wandered over to the bookshelf. Her hands searched along the dusty spines. "Looking for a book."
"Oh. Want pasta for dinner?" Trevor ran his eyes along her profile, noting the wrinkles of her white polo, the bulge of skin over the waist of her jeans, a size too small. "I was gonna put on some water." He tapped the door frame along with an unknown rhythm. She glared at the sound's intrusion. She picked up "On Beauty."
Turning around, she nodded. "Sure. Sounds good." Mustering a feeble smile, she hoped that he wouldn't notice the way that her eyes had puffed up, the redness that gave them away. He furrowed his brow a bit, but he turned and made his way into the kitchen. Veronica breathed deeply for the first time in several minutes and waited another minute or so before going to retrieve the journal from its temporary refuge. There was a noticeable nick in the soft leather of the spine, a mark of her carelessness. It would serve as a reminder for future occasions, she would exercise more caution from now on.
Veronica began to wonder what constituted love. Was love the kind of unrequited longing that she wrote about daily in her journals or was love the simple act of asking what your wife would like to eat for dinner? Was love the sort of earth shattering, mind altering, foolish experience that had defined her youth or was love cooking for your spouse, or noticing when they had been crying but knowing not to ask until later? She had always struggled with the definition. She preferred to experience both sensations, though one never quite lived up to her expectations. Sliding the book onto the top shelf, she took note of the way that her wedding ring caught the light of the small desk lamp. She switched the light off and retreated into the kitchen, the scent of burnt pasta hurrying her stride.
