It took nearly 2 weeks to move all of her belongings into the house. I thought it would never end. Everything had a place and everything had to be handled with the utmost care. At least that is one thing I like about her.
But right now, right this moment, I despise her. Peeking through the cracked bedroom door, I can see her at the dressing table brushing her silky, blonde hair. It falls to her hips and shines like spun gold. That’s enough to make me clench my teeth to contain the slight bit of rage building inside me.
She hums a little tune as she sits there admiring herself. It’s so familiar, yet I can’t place it…possibly from one of the new Disney movies. Well, at least in my mind, the movie is new. Suddenly she stops, cocks her head to the right and slowly puts the brush on the table. Does she see me in the mirror? I retreat just enough to still keep an eye on her.
I see her shoulders lift and lower as if she just took a deep breath and I can see a glistening in her eyes. Is she crying? Surely not. Women like her don’t cry. They’d rather throw fits of rage than have anyone believe they’re weak.
She stands and walks toward the down-turned bed, releases her robe so it falls to the floor, and stands there just long enough for me to hate her a little more. Her body is near flawless with her flawless skin and subtle curves. Her hair falling to the small of her back is just way too…perfect. She slips into bed, turns out the light, and after humming her little song, is fast asleep in no time.
The moonlight illuminates the room in a faint blue glow and I can smell the jasmine from below the window. Perhaps it is just a memory…perhaps it’s real.
Part 2 of a series: The House
Originally Published on: August 12, 2014