Mona
The phone rang suddenly, making her jump and hit her elbow on the edge of the dining room table. She realized she'd fallen asleep on her empty plate again. She answered the phone. "Hello? Oh ok. Are you sure? Alright, don't worry about it...it was only lasagna anyway. Thanks for calling. Please drive safe."
Only lasagna. That took only three hours to make. Because she only used fresh ingredients and insisted on making it from scratch. If only he knew.
On second thoughts, it probably wouldn't matter. It's not like her lasagna stood a chance against his clients or their frivolous lawsuits or their long purses. She doubted it would make any difference even if he did know how her life had become defined by waiting. Waiting for him to arrive so they could go to sleep in silence. Waiting for her daughter to come back from school with lipstick on and cigarettes in her bag. Waiting to have a decent conversation with her that didn't involve the words "Because I'm your mother" or "You're not old enough" or "Isn't there an earlier show?" or "I found this in your jeans - do you want to tell me how it got there?" Waiting for the day when either of them would look at her without resentment.
She filled a bowl with cereal (lasagna didn't sound as appetizing) and went to the sofa in the den to eat it quietly in front of the TV. The sofa was littered with her daughter's stuff...which she wasn't allowed to touch, of course. She tried gently pushing away a bag to make room for herself when a book fell out from the open bag. "At least it's not a pack of cigarettes!", she thought, relieved that the new hobby her daughter had found - reading - was in her estimation, the only hope she had to compensate for bad parenting and a broken marriage. For books offered a wonderful escape from reality - a reality which was all too damaged to possibly yield a healthy teenager. After all, Mona herself had books to thank for her own escape from reality all those years ago.
She picked up the book to replace in the bag when the title caught her attention and her hand stopped moving. Smiling wistfully, she turned to the first page and started reading..."What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died? That she was beautiful and brilliant? That she loved Mozart and Bach, the Beatles, and me?"
She was still reading, her mind half on the words and half in a long-lost reality, with tears running down her face, her cereal forgotten, when she looked up to see her daughter in the doorway. "Oh hey, sorry...I'll put it back in your bag...It just fell out when I sat down...Sorry"
Instead of the usual tirade and teenage drama queen sequence Mona had been expecting for 'invasion of privacy' and 'not respecting' her, her daughter came and sat down next to her.
Looking at her, she said, "Mamma, don't you know? Love means never having to say you're sorry."
To be continued...
Only lasagna. That took only three hours to make. Because she only used fresh ingredients and insisted on making it from scratch. If only he knew.
On second thoughts, it probably wouldn't matter. It's not like her lasagna stood a chance against his clients or their frivolous lawsuits or their long purses. She doubted it would make any difference even if he did know how her life had become defined by waiting. Waiting for him to arrive so they could go to sleep in silence. Waiting for her daughter to come back from school with lipstick on and cigarettes in her bag. Waiting to have a decent conversation with her that didn't involve the words "Because I'm your mother" or "You're not old enough" or "Isn't there an earlier show?" or "I found this in your jeans - do you want to tell me how it got there?" Waiting for the day when either of them would look at her without resentment.
She filled a bowl with cereal (lasagna didn't sound as appetizing) and went to the sofa in the den to eat it quietly in front of the TV. The sofa was littered with her daughter's stuff...which she wasn't allowed to touch, of course. She tried gently pushing away a bag to make room for herself when a book fell out from the open bag. "At least it's not a pack of cigarettes!", she thought, relieved that the new hobby her daughter had found - reading - was in her estimation, the only hope she had to compensate for bad parenting and a broken marriage. For books offered a wonderful escape from reality - a reality which was all too damaged to possibly yield a healthy teenager. After all, Mona herself had books to thank for her own escape from reality all those years ago.
She picked up the book to replace in the bag when the title caught her attention and her hand stopped moving. Smiling wistfully, she turned to the first page and started reading..."What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died? That she was beautiful and brilliant? That she loved Mozart and Bach, the Beatles, and me?"
She was still reading, her mind half on the words and half in a long-lost reality, with tears running down her face, her cereal forgotten, when she looked up to see her daughter in the doorway. "Oh hey, sorry...I'll put it back in your bag...It just fell out when I sat down...Sorry"
Instead of the usual tirade and teenage drama queen sequence Mona had been expecting for 'invasion of privacy' and 'not respecting' her, her daughter came and sat down next to her.
Looking at her, she said, "Mamma, don't you know? Love means never having to say you're sorry."
To be continued...
posted by RTD2 at 9:19 PM
3 Comments:
I'm curious...what's with these Love Story inspired posts?
Arre J.K. Howling, when are you continuing this? You have piqued everyone's interest. Please publish.
I must admit - a bit of popat is happening...I thought I had a brilliant idea but it is fast fading into 'stupid nonsensical mistake'. But anyway, for what it's worth, the third installment is up for 'everyone' (both the three of us, Parth?) to read :)
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