A Normal Day

She’s angry. No, no she’s pissed. So pissed she can’t see. Why, just this morning she was angry about being late for work. She was angry about the run in her hose. She was angry about the traffic, the goddamn traffic! She could laugh, she felt like laughing. A humorless giggle escaped her lips. How she wished she could be angry about the traffic now.

            Those problems seem so insignificant in comparison. They are insignificant, like her. She is insignificant, like a tiny pencil mark on a white sheet of paper. And she’s only the tip of the pencil, not even the mark. There can’t be a mark. It’s too out of place. There can be words or a drawing but not a mark. It wouldn’t make sense. Now nothing makes sense. What is “sense” anyway? Humans’ perception of reality? No, no one knows reality. Everyone lives in a damn dream.

            She moves her heated glare away from the plain white wall and looks out the window. The leaves are scarce among the trees, a fiery red. A tear escapes her eye, as she wonders why all the leaves don’t just fall together. Why do they fall one at a time? Her gaze follows down the trunk of a tree to see most of the leaves scattered on the ground.

            Yes, yes, she is very angry, angry at the world, angry with herself. He held her hand and all she could do was hold on to the man shinning out of his tiny frame. Why did she have to be so weak? If only she could pocket him away and keep him safe. She thought she had. She did everything she could. She hadn’t done enough. Now it’s over.

            She stands up and walks back to the room. She wipes her eyes before she opens the door to step in. There he is in his blinding smile.

            “Where have you been?” He asks her. His voice is raspy.

            “I’ve been thinking,” she says quietly, his smile is forced. He’s tired. She’s tired.

            “What about?” He asks.

            “Life,” she whispers. His smile is now gone. He isn’t hiding anymore.

            “I told you before, sometimes it just happens.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head. Who’s the adult in this situation? She thinks bitterly to herself.

            “How can you be so calm? I’m trying not to go insane,” she confesses, “I’m hanging on by a thread here.” He grabs her hand and again she holds on. She is so useless.

            “ It is what it is,” he states, “but I need to know about you. I can’t make peace until I know how you will be.”

            She hesitates, should she lie? No, the truth is better, always better. “ I guess we’ll see,” she mumbles.

            “It can be an adventure,” he says trying to make light of the situation. She glances up from looking at their hands clasped together. As she gazes at him, she searches his eyes for the one thing she needs, the one thing that will keep her together, the one thing that could save him: hope. She finds it.

            The corners of her mouth lift up as she admits, “I was upset about traffic this morning.” He chuckles in response, understanding what she means.

            “Sarcoma ain’t nothin’ to some road rage,” he grins, a real, true grin.