Mismatched Socks
[Dependencies: Jan 31st -> Feb 1st -> current entry]
Cindy was losing her temper with him. Was he not understanding the upcoming medical bills?
“You must look for another job,” she said, telephone propped between right shoulder and head. With her hands she unloaded the remainder of the wicker laundry basket—socks, mostly—on the Formica counter by the washing machine. When she matched a pair, before stacking it on the shelf, she took a sniff of the jasmine fragrance but this time it had no comforting effect.
“If I jump ship, SMR dies,” Spence replied. His voice came across electronic, mechanical; it predicted impending disaster and betrayed a resignation to accept it.
Cindy had not heard that tone before, at least not since the death of Spence’s brother eight years back. That was the first time she saw Spence cry. Spence never cried. Always on top of his game, escalating the corporate ladder, slowly but always upwards.
“Well, you got to be CEO,” she said bitterly. You always wanted that more than you wanted the unplanned twins. You only wanted one, remember Spence? Which would you pick?
“Exactly why I must stay. After the babies are born—”
“Nicholas and Zachary,” she corrected him. Really, which one would you pick? Nicholas or Zachary?
“Nicolas and Zachary, yes. After they’re born, I can look for a new job then.”
They ended their conversation with married-couple niceties, which Cindy always wondered if any couple in the world actually meant. Not that she didn’t love him, but the telling of so at the end of each telephone conversation (when they talked four times a day) felt contrived.
In two months Nicholas and Zachary would arrive. Nothing in their lives would remain unchanged.
SMR couldn’t have picked a worse time to self-amputate.
She sorted through the remaining socks. Two gray socks matched, two black matched, and she stacked those pairs on the shelf. When she picked up the last two socks she held a brown-white checkered sock in the left hand, and a beige diamond-textured in the right hand.
A mismatch.
A man and a woman not understanding each other?
Twins fraternal, not identical?
But Dr. Fields was clear: the boys were identical.
It was then that she felt the first contraction.
Cindy was losing her temper with him. Was he not understanding the upcoming medical bills?
“You must look for another job,” she said, telephone propped between right shoulder and head. With her hands she unloaded the remainder of the wicker laundry basket—socks, mostly—on the Formica counter by the washing machine. When she matched a pair, before stacking it on the shelf, she took a sniff of the jasmine fragrance but this time it had no comforting effect.
“If I jump ship, SMR dies,” Spence replied. His voice came across electronic, mechanical; it predicted impending disaster and betrayed a resignation to accept it.
Cindy had not heard that tone before, at least not since the death of Spence’s brother eight years back. That was the first time she saw Spence cry. Spence never cried. Always on top of his game, escalating the corporate ladder, slowly but always upwards.
“Well, you got to be CEO,” she said bitterly. You always wanted that more than you wanted the unplanned twins. You only wanted one, remember Spence? Which would you pick?
“Exactly why I must stay. After the babies are born—”
“Nicholas and Zachary,” she corrected him. Really, which one would you pick? Nicholas or Zachary?
“Nicolas and Zachary, yes. After they’re born, I can look for a new job then.”
They ended their conversation with married-couple niceties, which Cindy always wondered if any couple in the world actually meant. Not that she didn’t love him, but the telling of so at the end of each telephone conversation (when they talked four times a day) felt contrived.
In two months Nicholas and Zachary would arrive. Nothing in their lives would remain unchanged.
SMR couldn’t have picked a worse time to self-amputate.
She sorted through the remaining socks. Two gray socks matched, two black matched, and she stacked those pairs on the shelf. When she picked up the last two socks she held a brown-white checkered sock in the left hand, and a beige diamond-textured in the right hand.
A mismatch.
A man and a woman not understanding each other?
Twins fraternal, not identical?
But Dr. Fields was clear: the boys were identical.
It was then that she felt the first contraction.
posted by Astrapo | 10:00 AM
1 Comments:
contractions rule.
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