Loud voices, announcing the arrival and departure of trains, overlapped in a confusing cacophony that made her head swirl. It was late morning and the shadows created by the sun streaming through the windows resembled prison bars encircling the travelers, keeping them trapped. Dust motes, highlighted in the daylight, cascaded through the air and clogged her nose and throat, choking her with their dry powder. She wanted to turn her head and spit.
Or maybe not turn her head. The thought of it, the satisfaction curling though her chest, almost made her smile. She could feel the saliva building under her tongue, pushing against her bottom teeth, and she ached to spew the grit right into his face. She could picture it. His shock, eyes widening and shoulders hunching, maybe stepping back a bit at the assault. The surprise, quickly replaced by anger, his eyes narrowing, slits of ice-blue rage glaring at her from under his feathery, almost delicate eyebrows. His hand, tightening into a fist, would raise until he remembered he was in public and he’d flex his fingers, rolling his shoulders back.
“Later,” he’d growl.
She knew what later would bring. Last week after he decided, once again, that she spent too much time in her garden, she stared in the mirror at her left eye, swollen almost completely closed, with a purple bruise that shimmered beneath, spreading like a malignant tumor onto her cheekbone.
And two days later, he dragged her into the house to stop her from weeding, shoved her hard and she hit her knee against the edge of the coffee table. She saw the skin rip, felt the warm blood trickle down her shin, but there was no pain, not then. He stomped away and she wondered if her knee still belonged to her. Was it still attached to her body? Was anything attached to her body? She ran her finger through the blood, held it to the light. It felt warm and cozy, a tiny fleece blanket on her finger. She continued to examine it, touched it to the tip of her tongue. It tasted sweet, which surprised her. The blood that ran in thick rivulets down her face after he punched her was always the bitter taste of pennies. This blood from her knee was different.
This trip was different too, but he didn’t know that yet.
“I’ll be back on Wednesday.”
“I’ll be here to meet you.” Her lips curled into her sweetest smile.
He turned and strode off to catch his train, arms swinging with power and purpose. She counted his steps. One, two, three…. By the time she got to twenty-six, he slowed, by forty, he dropped his briefcase, by forty-eight, he collapsed. A crowd gathered round him; voices called for a doctor. She strolled over, composing her grieving widow face. He’d never stop her from tending her beloved flowers again. Foxglove, her garden’s glorious purple centerpiece, ensured her safety, forever.
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Alice Benson lives in Wisconsin with her wife and two dogs. She discovered writing as a passion in the third act of her life and spends much of her time in pursuit of metaphors. Alice recently retired from a job in a human services field. Her shorter published works have appeared in a Main Street Rag Anthology, Epiphany, Molotov Cocktail, Cliterature, English Kills Review, Shooter Literary Magazine, Diverse Voices Quarterly and other publications. Alice’s books, Her Life is Showing and A Year In Her Life, were published by Black Rose Writing.
For more information, visit Alice’s website www.alicebensonauthor.com.
