Silence, heavy, hanging. Damp as a foggy wash day,
hung the heavy silence, shrieking with the unspoken as they carefully moved
around each other’s brittleness.
Carefully, carefully not touching the edges; the intense tango of a
dreary Sunday afternoon. Despite the
potential of glassy acreage letting in the world, nothing less than a sonorous
doorbell would break the spell. This
self-inflicted muteness could only be penetrated by a witness. But who would brave the tension long if they
came a-calling? And if some guileless, breezy
caller did come, would the hastily proffered offer of thick coffee - something
stronger perhaps, an aperitif - afford sufficient respite from the piercing
unspoken knowledge that too many days like this will break them? Too many years left to shift and slide around. Too many weeks - too many Sundays and too
long - feeling that silent chill creeping into veins and bones, killing them softly
as softly as all the atrophies of age by a lingering, suffocating, damp, heavy,
silence.
