They told her she would have to go through a period of adjustment.
There are exactly three hundred and sixteen tiles in the ceiling. The neighbor comes home at exactly 6:14 in the evening. Their dog barks fourteen times in the night.
She sighed and rolled over to his side of the bed, reaching for something familiar, to find only a pillow – a new pillow. His closets were bare. She’d given away every article of clothing he’d owned. She’d burned his underwear in a fit of rage and thrown out his toothbrush and his razor. She’d broken half the dishes.
There were days when she didn’t leave the house. Friends would call with concern. “I’m FINE!” she would tell them as she crawled on her hands and knees to make sure that nothing of him was in the house. “He’s dead. I’m fine.” And then she would find herself sitting in the middle of a darkened hall weeping.
He’d always had a penchant for blondes.
Mr. Carl Bruinheld had come home early from work to find her husband in the throws of passion with Mrs. Carl Bruinheld. The police report said he had removed the revolver from the dresser and shot them both before they could get dressed and bolt. He shot the pretty Mrs. Bruinheld in the face. He chose to cripple her husband before he finally finished him off.
She admired the man.
Now she paces the house through the night. Rage does not keep easy company. It robs one of sleep and keeps one motivated to move like a caged tiger.
At dawn, she can be seen in the window as the street lamps go out. She seems to be staring at something -searching -a cold cup of coffee in her hand.
Perhaps she is looking for adjustment?
Roberta blogs HERE at Turn the Page Roberta