I'm sure, for some, that news would be welcomed with open arms and I shall admit to having had a ripple of anticipation, foreseeing the opportunity to write more in a fortnight than I had previously managed in five years.
So, here I am… unencumbered by chores, ritual or necessity. Able to write long into the night, should I choose, and without the worry of out-sleeping the dawn as it seeps into the corners of the secret, velvety darkness enveloping my boudoir.
Now comes the tricksy part. Precisely what to write. Prior to yesterday's trip to the surgeon, I was absolutely certain to return home simply brimming with ideas. Indeed, I had several lascivious narratives all chivvying for my undivided attention, jostling against one another in fizzing, throbbing excitement.
Alas, the only throbbing I am currently experiencing is one that I am doing my damnedest to control with a variety of painkillers. I always knew not having experienced the incomparable labours of childbirth would, one day, come back to bite me. As I inhale another pained breath, the dull ache burgeoning in my toes bursts into ripe flower.
I must concentrate and visualise only the luscious pay-off to my agonies. I realise such pain is to be borne as that which I have chosen largely (although not exclusively) for cosmetic purposes. I am, therefore, somewhat a victim of my own vanity, and may be derided accordingly, dear reader.
The pay-off… Oh, my. I have kept them safe and fettered for so long… an age it seems. They lie in wait, cocooned in their pristine box deep within the safe cave of my armoire. To lift the lid, and gaze upon their perfect form causes a breath to catch in my throat.
I hold them aloft, their shiny, patent blackness pools my features into melted, dissolving abstraction. Their pointed toes and spindly, spiteful heels seem to mock my incapacity to slip inside their structure and stride confidently about my business.
Let's visualise, together, you and I…
A pair of darkly polished, heavy oak doors swing open, throwing moonlight across a wide expanse of pale marble hallway, veins in the stone winding like sinews into the shadows beyond.
Silhouetted against silver, I enter. The steel tips of my heels click out a dreamy staccato on the marble, treading in the footsteps of princes, duchesses, rogues and queens. Their faces gaze down upon me from the high walls. Immortalised in oils, their traditional, inscrutable countenances reveal little of their passions, furies and secret obsessions.
I turn towards a chair in one corner, letting the heavy fur, damp from the night air, slide from my shoulders. I lay the coat carefully over the velvet upholstery, shivering slightly in the chill, unmoving atmosphere inside the house.
I move back towards the centre of the hall. Click… click… click…. click. My heels tap out an intent. Upon a small table, a crystal vase holds a single red rose. In rude bloom, the rose has let go of three petals, they lie as perfumed tears upon the table.
A heavy cream envelope is propped against the vase. Unsealed, unnamed. It doesn't need to be addressed for me to know its content. Virtually every goodbye I've experienced has been unaddressed: I can't bear them any other way. A personalised parting lays heavy on the heart, eventually rotting away completely, leaving a brand in the exact shape of its pain.
I reach out a crimson-nailed finger and lightly stroke the envelope. The action pulls at the cuff of my silk shirt, exposing four rows of pearls circling my wrist. They gleam mellowly in the moonlight, exactly the same colour as the skin on his back.
I hadn't wanted him to leave, but I was compelled not to have him feel indebted to me. His love was weighty, dense like hard-packed snow and he wore sadness like an overcoat. A good overcoat, and one which suited him well, with deep pockets of melancholia and often-visited regret.
A cloud sailed over the moon, then, veiling a fleeting wish for his return. The moon knows when to place a finger to the lips, lest foolishness begin drumming its insistent fingers against our better judgement.
I turn and walk back towards the doors, pushing against their resistance and closing myself off to such thoughts.
In almost total darkness, the sound of my heels echoes against the marble. A determined, resolute tattoo upon the path of my own better judgement.
Unseen, the rose drops another petal.
***
I haven't written in such a long time. That felt good!