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Sunday, June 12, 2011

The quiet...

I don't talk about it much but I am an aspiring writer...  I haven't had much of an opportunity to write much lately but I thought I would post a short story I wrote a while ago.  Feedback would be nice... (smile)  This is entitled:

"The Quiet".

I watched him as he walked through the house. His eyes darted from left to right, looking for things out of place. He started with the kitchen, checking for unwashed dishes in the sink. He then made his way to the back of the house, looking for stray items left in forbidden places. At last he comes into the living room, where I sit watching the children play. He leans down and gives me a perfunctory kiss. The kiss is dry, and his slightly chapped lips irritate my cheek.



He is not a bad husband. No. No one would call him a bad husband. He goes to work every day, comes home on time, and he’s good to the kids. Yet…, there is something about him that is to quiet.


Quiet. I never did like it quiet. I’ve always loved loudness. Loud music, loud people, loud laughter. Yet I married this quiet man, and made a family with him. I was never quiet growing up. Grandpa used to always yell, “Gal! Shut-up all that loud racket, for ya deefen me!” Maybe something in me, craved this quietness that existed in him.


He’s a perfectionist. Everything in its proper place, at all times. He required everyone to function on this same scale of perfection. In the beginning I rebelled. I screamed, kicked, cursed. I told him I wasn’t him, and didn’t have to march to his tune.


I don’t know when I changed. It was subtle at first, and it was after the babies came. Who felt like arguing about unwashed dishes, after changing diapers all day? It was easier to just wash them, and please him, than to argue with him.


Like engulfing shadows, his quiet gradually overtook me. I became a person I no longer recognized. I functioned by schedules, and day-planners. I hated this quiet me, hated me, as much as I sometimes hated him.


I watch him go the cabinet and begin to sort the coins in his pocket. First he stacks the quarters, then dimes, nickels and pennies. He then reaches into his wallet, and begins the ritual of sorting all the various little papers he’s accumulated for the day. He glances up and our eyes meet. We stare at each other, as the kids continue to play. Then he smiles. He smiles a genuine smile. He smiles a contented smile.


Perhaps hate is a strong word to use. For I do love this man. Perhaps the quiet is just the sacrifice one pays for a content husband. Sacrifices aren’t new to women. Women have sacrificed for the good of their families for hundreds of years. Loudness for quiet, contentment of home for chaos.


“What’s for dinner?” he asked, sitting down next to me. He knew what was for dinner; it was Tuesday, so of course it was chicken. Always chicken on Tuesday. For the last eight years of our marriage there had been chicken on Tuesday.


I part my lips to answer chicken, and then pause. I grab his face between my hands, and give him a passionate kiss. His face lights with surprise, and then I drop the bomb. “Were having pizza” I answer loudly. “Tonight, we are having pizza”.


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