Solitude and Desertion
Her nails were clear and diamond hard when they fell upon the table. Meaningless within the randomness of life, she rose against the tide of couch cushions to stare at the door.
Well, it was obvious she wasn't coming home. Didn't mean she could stop staring.
Rolling over with a sigh, she turned the tube on, focusing on the merry idiocy of Tim Taylor for escape. Tim morphed into Homer Simpson, who morphed into Dennis Finch, who morphed into Darma Finkelstein; the view never seemed to really change; every laugh felt hollow.
At nine-thirty, she rolled off the couch and began to blot away whatever little mascara-soaked tears she hadn't swallowed. With her heart in her chest, she exited the room proper, walking onto what had been their deck.
In rickety heels, she climbed up onto the bottom railing of the guard rail surrounding the balcony. Leaning all of her weight as close to the ground as possible, she could see the sparkle of street lamps below, greasy specks of white in a cloudy landscape of treetops and street. She wondered to herself: how many more inches to the ground from here....what would her body feel like, when it collided with the earth, a part of its natural plan once more?
Was it even worth the effort taken to jump?
The idea of suicide slowly began to take on a ludicrous shade; people depended on her activity, demanded that she remain alive. The weight of an entire company remained heavy on her shoulders.
Francine stepped away from the railing slowly, gradually. Blotting away the last of her tears, she returned to the inside of her home. Mourning was no longer her fashion, and Lisa would not have wanted her to feel that way.
It was a day, not for death, but forgetfulness.