you and me – POSTCARD #29
This stunning handmade card was sent in by the talented writer and artist Anya Riis whose blog is in my sidebar among others that you should check out if you haven’t already.
am angry at her
She knew he still had a temper she just never saw it anymore.
He was a goldsmith but had thick forearms like a tradesman and she used to love running her hands along them. His shoulders were also wide, he could scoop her into his arms with almost no effort. She used to love that too. Before she flopped like a ragdoll in them.
Now she watched him walk from room to room, his long strides compressed into a sort of shuffle so he didn’t make noise. She constantly wondered why he did it. The payout from T.A.C had made her wealthy enough for independent care. He hadn’t even been in the car when it happened. But he stayed. Stayed for the surgeries and the rehab. Stayed for the home renovations and her speech therapy.
She sat in her chair before the golden windowpanes he’d gilded by hand before she’d come home from the hospital. She closed her eyes against the light streaming over her body and swore she could feel the warmth. She heard his shuffle behind her and tried not to wince at his cheery tone as he asked if she felt like going out today.
No, thank you.
She answered remembering how she used to say,
Just because I can’t move doesn’t mean you have to stop fucking other women.
Just because I can’t move doesn’t mean you have to stop hitting me.
Her mouth, the only thing she had left, used to burn, the spittle flying from her lips as she said worse things and he trembled. She pushed and pushed hoping he would close those giant hands around her throat. But all he did was sob in her lap. He sobbed while she wished they were both dead.
These days, she was mostly polite.