Inspired by a few songs and a painting I chanced upon recently.
This is an excerpt of a much larger piece.
She sat at the dressing table, holding a small jewelry box. She opened it - the soft pop was the only sound in the large, airy flat. Nestled in the deep, violet velvet were two creamy pearls. Grazing one with her hand, she set the box down and walked over to the window, pushing it open. The sweet smell of a summer morning wafted in, rustling the curtains and fluttering her robe. The wind exposed her creamy flesh and bare breasts. Not bothering to cover herself up, she silently padded to the kitchen, setting her coffee to brew. She flung open the windows of the living room, taking in the stunning view of their balcony looking over the park. Pouring her coffee, she took a sip, and sighed to herself inwardly.
It was supposed to have been a busy six months. It had started off with longer hours, that slowly became an excuse to live a separate life. That had somehow translated itself into a busy six years. Six years of eating alone, sleeping alone, and waking up alone. Six years of communication through email, fleeting phone calls and hurried weekend morning conversations. If by chance, he was home, his study door always remained shut. Periodically however, she received gorgeous expensive gifts. Gifts that were ordered by his secretary, paid through his credit card and delivered by the butler.
She buttered her toast, recalling the last evening they'd spent together - a Christmas party at a friend's. They'd spent two hours in the same room - a miracle. They'd spoken briefly on the car ride home, and after disappearing into the study for a while, he'd come into the room just as she'd stepped out of the shower. They'd made love that night. Robotic love.
Nancy glanced at the oven clock and got up from the breakfast table. She cleaned her few dishes, shuddering as water droplets jumped on her bare stomach and thighs. Walking back to the bedroom, she paused only to slip off her robe and set it over the chair of her dressing table. She walked into the bathroom, pulling her hair up. Just in front of the bathrobe, on the dressing table, was a note, unmistakably not in his writing. It read:
Gone to Italy for a week.
Love you,
Tom.
The shower turned on, and the oven clock beeped: 7:01 am.
