Churn

by Michael Solender

She lie in bed, hours since retiring, churning and tossing fitfully in the black dark arid night air that sank in through the open window. The crickets did not drown out the recurring chorus from the mornings misdeeds that rattled in her heavy, bony head. She felt truly sorry... she was sorry... but the words that leaped from her lips not in anger but with vengeance had found their target squarely. Wounded and shocked at the same time he immediately retreated to the extra bedroom and shut the door tightly; she heard his tears steadily falling, each taking another drop of what little affection was left for her. Now, she pitched and flopped, her bed cold in the hot air without him. Morning would not bring her relief and she knew this, she covered her ears to make it stop hurting.

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Michael Solender is a corporate refugee and freelance writer based in Charlotte, North Carolina. He writes a weekly Neighborhoods column for the Charlotte Observer and blogs here.