Kim shouldn’t have agreed to viewing an apartment. She wants a house. But every one she’s seen reminded her of her childhood home in some way. Three times, she’s picked up the phone to cancel the appointment. Each time, she put it down before anyone answered.
So here she is, entering with the estate broker. He gives her the tour and rattles off his sales spiel. Kim’s not listening. Her heart’s racing, her breathing’s speeding up. She walks straight out onto the huge balcony. What a view. And not a memory in sight.
She wouldn’t have called herself suicidal. She had a good job (good but oh so boring); she was engaged to a man with an even better job (she suspected he had an affair with at least one of his paralegals); she lived in a big house (it took hours to keep clean).
She felt gloomy but she ignored it. She had no reason to complain. So she didn’t.
She wouldn’t have called herself suicidal. She’d have no explanation for why she stepped in front of the oncoming train, other than she wondered what it would feel like to stop being.
My favourite thing about going to the record store: I never know what treasure I’ll hunt down next.
Today’s no different. Though it’s not rare vinyl that’s tickling my fancy this time. Her immaculate taste in music catches my eye first. I’ve been following her around, pretending to be browsing a few letters down the aisle. She’s wearing a black dress with full circle skirt made of shiny fabric. She looks like a piece of exquisite album art.
I wonder if, when she spins round, her skirt will fan out and make her look like a record on the turntable.
Bad enough with the fire engine blocking the road, but it’s the parked cars that rile me most. Any excuse for not following the rules. I’d bet my savings there will be complaints to the council because I missed parts of the road. It’s that type of neighbourhood.
‘Dreadful, isn’t it?’ The woman’s standing on her doorstep, nursing a cup of tea.
‘Dreadful? Ain’t the word I’d use. How am I s’posed to sweep? And the soot. No picnic, cleaning soot.’
She gives me a funny look and goes inside – no doubt to watch my progress from behind her curtains.
Elliot turns away. Amelia mustn’t see his tears. First time she’s let him hold her hand, too. Worst timing ever.
Elliot’s gone weird. He’s facing the other way. I’ve followed the guidelines in the book. Hard, though, I want to kiss him. When he brushed against my hand, I didn’t pull away. Mistake?
The knitting woman watches. She used to knit matching sweaters for the twins – their mother couldn’t afford Habs merchandise. When Benny died in the accident, Elliot shut out everyone. But he’s been going for walks with this girl for a while. Time he told her. It’ll help.
I reckon I need to shed some light on the origin of this one:
It’s my take on today’s Writing 101 prompt (A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.) and the twist that goes with it (write the scene from three different points of view: from the perspective of the man, then the woman, and finally the old woman). How do you cram three different PoVs into one hundred words? Well, obviously I had to try.
For those of you who aren’t from Canada or happen to pay attention to the NHL: I read red sweater and thought of the Montreal Canadiens. Habs is one of their nick names. I’m not a Habs fan, and I haven’t even adopted them as my ersatz team to root for in the playoffs with my team out, so I’ve no idea why I went, ‘oooh, Habs red’…