He sat bent ahead (hunched) in a ‘rocking’ chair. It was stable but to him it swayed. Tilting forward to sip his wine with evenness – so, it would last for the duration of his pre-mediated campaign. One with intention to make her life a misery. His tiny feet stuck into sheepskin slippers, a little too big, made him feel great.
He couldn’t nail why he did this to her? Perhaps Clara was so perfect – he preferred not to admit he adored her. Or worst still, a coward stuck in his filthy tower of resentment. The one good thing here – is, not once did she notice the hindrance. That just made him more inclined. Poor old man. Not in terms of age but more so ‘no’ new beginnings. Not last time, this one (this life) and no more to follow.
Clara would skip past his window each morning and then after college, oblivious of his gazing, angry penetration. And when she turned just 18, she left for greener pastures. Miles away from her home, and his.
Before long, he found her. Looking to see what her friends were doing on social media. So he marked a new page on his iPhone that showed her more recent activity. Another to the several already. He didn’t want to miss a moment.
Clara’s now 35 and forever more ‘radiant ‘even’ than before. He’s 52. Clara got married and he ‘still’ is too.
He continues to write about her. Just her. No one else. The epicentre of all things monetary. If you knew Clara you would see the pattern of his work, just the way we do. Transfixed. Empty. Callous imprints of a life for which he’s deformed in his head. One that does not belong to him. Even sings, drawers paints to her essence. Everything he hates is what he loves the most. Poor old man. More so, poor old wife. Or maybe she knows more than Clara?
Sometimes he wishes her dead, his obsession. To aid his psychotic thoughts. Clara, that is, not his wife. She serves him too well to do without. More than Clara would – and that is for sure. We can only suppose, he hates this most. Freedom. Clara’s freedom. Although, his wife regards it a blessing. It keeps her monetarily abundant to know she does little for her turrets and tacky french polished junk, she still regards sassy. They cost enough. No taste. No inclination. No purpose. His wife, not Clara. Of course. Each year twin sets of slippers beneath their traditional tree.
Oh Lookie! blarrbbb for their fake world to see. for which they sneer ‘tat’ entangled in glee.
He’ll go in a square box so he doesn’t have to move from a creaky old chair, for which now rocks from the side he reaches for wine. A self fulfilled prophecy. Poor old Man.
While Clara collects stones and shells to make bows for her hair – to the delight of her chivalrous and fiercely loving husband – One that takes pride in their carriage and land – where animals roam freely and guests come to supper. They are one …
And what’s left from the days of crafting, she embroiders to her clothes. She bakes. She loves. She is LOVE. So unaware of the stare. Thank Angels. Thank Love you are there.