Letting The Thunder Pass
Wind tears at the plastic tablecloths on the terrace. It is four in the morning. The bar is closed. Jill, the waitress, if off shift and done in. She is sitting across from me nursing a drink. She is waiting, perhaps not at this moment, but she is waiting. Soon she will get the phone call and he will say that there is someone else by way of an excuse. There won’t be anyone else, we both know that, but he will say there is. We have done this before, sitting on the terrace, drinking, smoking, knowing that something has ended and pretending that soon something better will come along. The night air is warm. Somewhere over the water I can hear thunder rolling. Jill sighs and stretches her neck back and to the side. The way the sparse light catches her neck I can see the thin blue trace of her jugular.
She reaches across the table, takes my hand and twists it so that the palm faces upward. With her index finger she pushes back my shirt cuff that turns up slightly then slips along my arm. There are four precise white scars on my wrist; I lost some of the use of my right hand because of them. Jill looks through me then away at something I cannot see. “Did it hurt?”
We never talked about it before, not really, they were from a time best forgotten. “Yes.”
“Why did you do it?”
“You know.”
“Tell me anyway, I need to hear it tonight.”
“I can’t remember. It doesn’t seem important anymore.” I say and sip my drink.
Jill shakes her head slightly. “I couldn’t do something like that, especially if it wasn’t for anything important.”
“Nothing is that important.”
“I suppose. Did it hurt a lot?”
“Yes.”
She crinkles her nose. “I couldn’t do something like that,” she says and lets go of my hand.
“Good I couldn’t live through it.”
She rubs the back of her neck rolling her head slowly from side to side then straightens and lights another cigarette. “He didn’t believe me.”
I nod. “He thinks you had an abortion?”
She nods and sips her drink again. “I’m Catholic for Christ’s sake.”
“That doesn’t make much difference these days. Have you talked about it?”
“I don’t think he wants to, it gives him a clear path to believe what he wants.” She runs her fingers over the scars on my wrist. “They look awful.”
“That’s just the way they look. They aren’t as bad as yours.”
She laughs. “Mine don’t show.”
“Most of the time.”
She laughs. “When do they show?”
“When you talk too much.”
“That’s just babbling.”
I give her a skeptical look. She smiles but does not respond. We finish our drinks and then walk down to the quay to watch the boats come in from the approaching storm. It doesn’t smell like rain and I think perhaps the storm will pass us by.
###
Thank you for reading Letting The Thunder Pass I truly hope you enjoyed this very short story. Please take the time to review the story at your favourite retailer.
Have a good one - denis bernicky
About the Author
denis bernicky is a long time blogger and reviewer who pays the bills by fixing computers for a living. When not working or writing you can find denis running, cycling, taking pictures and drawing. denis’ Smashwords interview is available http://www.smashwords.com/interview/dbern.
denis bernicky’s blog can be found at http://bernicky.com/
You can connect with denis bernicky on facebook at https://www.facebook.com/denis.bernicky
