She exhaled a small sigh of sheer ecstasy at the ability to grab her laptop and sprawl out on the loveseat in front of the window to write. These small bits of time were precious to her, the times when her husband was working and the kids were at daycare. The moments of aloneness were welcomed and wished for often during the week, and when they finally came it was like a wish come true, almost too good to believe. She knew at any moment the phone would ring, it would be time to rush off to her evening's work, the oven timer would ring signalling that the food would soon start to burn if she continued to neglect it. Many a dinner had suffered at her hands, which were often busy tickling the keys of her laptop. Ah, moments just to sink into her thoughts and simply let them run wild across the screen. Sheer bliss.
She thinks of the times before the kids and the marriage, when she was alone once again, wild, a bit selfish, but free. Able to do whatever she wanted whenever she wanted with whomever. Oh that the days of youth were simply kept behind a door that one could disappear behind for ages and come back and find that time had stopped to wait for them. But it's real life now, she reminded herself firmly. Work and family and stress and fatigue were but symptoms of the Grown-Up syndrome. And writing was her escape.
Yesterday she encountered a girl with bright blue eyes beset in a small round face, with mussed brown hair that could have stood a good combing. The girl recognized her from a prior performance, and bubbled up with questions upon seeing her come in and sit in a chair in the audience nearest the piano. "I saw you at the last concert, you were so good!" gushed Mousy Hair. "How long have you been playing? Are you a student here? What do you do now? That's so cool!" and on and on she prodded. She was very friendly, Mousy Hair was. A friendliness the Good Woman used to know and used to embrace. But now, she could only feign a smile to mask her annoyance at the girl's friendly curiousity.
"I'm a graduate," the Good Woman said cooly. And all the while wanted to scream, "Why can't I be so friendly and open! I used to be! I used to be that girl, and now all she does is annoy me because she is not as damaged as I am; she is normal, able to be friendly." The Good Woman had been pained for quite some time over this, noticing throughout the past few years that her previously natural ability to be friendly had been replaced by a polite, proper, yet chilly temperament befitted with a forced smile to smooth things over. She counseled herself only through reminiscing over the events that had squeezed out her loving-kindness, her amicable cheer, her sweet, sweet spirit. And reminded herself that that was why; that spirit of long ago had been crushed through experience and had no pulse remaining through which to be revived. So then, she thought, how am I a "Good Woman?". And she proceeded to assure herself that she indeed was, with a sinking feeling in her stomach that any goodness she had left was surely in need of serious resuscitation, and soon.
She thinks of the times before the kids and the marriage, when she was alone once again, wild, a bit selfish, but free. Able to do whatever she wanted whenever she wanted with whomever. Oh that the days of youth were simply kept behind a door that one could disappear behind for ages and come back and find that time had stopped to wait for them. But it's real life now, she reminded herself firmly. Work and family and stress and fatigue were but symptoms of the Grown-Up syndrome. And writing was her escape.
Yesterday she encountered a girl with bright blue eyes beset in a small round face, with mussed brown hair that could have stood a good combing. The girl recognized her from a prior performance, and bubbled up with questions upon seeing her come in and sit in a chair in the audience nearest the piano. "I saw you at the last concert, you were so good!" gushed Mousy Hair. "How long have you been playing? Are you a student here? What do you do now? That's so cool!" and on and on she prodded. She was very friendly, Mousy Hair was. A friendliness the Good Woman used to know and used to embrace. But now, she could only feign a smile to mask her annoyance at the girl's friendly curiousity.
"I'm a graduate," the Good Woman said cooly. And all the while wanted to scream, "Why can't I be so friendly and open! I used to be! I used to be that girl, and now all she does is annoy me because she is not as damaged as I am; she is normal, able to be friendly." The Good Woman had been pained for quite some time over this, noticing throughout the past few years that her previously natural ability to be friendly had been replaced by a polite, proper, yet chilly temperament befitted with a forced smile to smooth things over. She counseled herself only through reminiscing over the events that had squeezed out her loving-kindness, her amicable cheer, her sweet, sweet spirit. And reminded herself that that was why; that spirit of long ago had been crushed through experience and had no pulse remaining through which to be revived. So then, she thought, how am I a "Good Woman?". And she proceeded to assure herself that she indeed was, with a sinking feeling in her stomach that any goodness she had left was surely in need of serious resuscitation, and soon.
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