Monday, June 14, 2010


Jun 14, 2010

There is a hole, the perfect size of a nine point five heel in her bathroom wall. A day, years ago when she was so frustrated that a swift kick inches above the paper roll and just below the towel rack were the only way to express the temperament of her hour. And she has kept that broken wall to remember that he only listened then.

She can lie in her bed and re-witness the gaping hole's angst while she remembers not too long after, perhaps a day or two later, he called paramedics because he thought she'd had too much Advil and didn't know what to do. The post drama review was simple, she was ok - just sad and with a headache.

That night, a conclusion of a long progression of discontent, she convinced the 5-7 paramedics that arrived, because in her town there isn't much action, that she was in fact fine. He had overreacted and there wasn't any domestic violence, just a whole lot of screaming. She promised she was just mad and sad and not likely to go sprinting about the beach with homeless people in the middle of the night.  She'd curl up at home like the docile education had drafted and would be OK.

Then she ran. Far and sandy she watched the waves play and the ground flex. She knew that what awaited her back at her home was lonely and was quite cold. She ran in shoes and workout clothes at 3AM sweating, beating, breathing, and he slept. She forgot her key and he didn't wake up for 45 minutes after she got back to let her in. He was clearly unconcerned by her late night sprint and saw no metaphor in his peaceful rest whilst she pounded her body against the pavement.

Years later, she traced her finger around the perfect size nine point five heel hole and realized she hadn't ever stopped running. A new course of course, but nothing holistic had arrived to change the patterned beat of her feet.

She would keep running and she would wait.

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