Weeping May Endure for a Night

Doctorward Contest—due June 4, 2014 (and obviously nearly two months late)

Pinterest Prompt #19: “Some nights, I can’t sleep because my mind is consumed with the thought of how much easier it would be if you were by my side.” ~SearchQuotes.com

 

With special thanks to my incredibly brilliant pre-reader and encourager, ladylibre. I couldn’t do what I do without you, m’dear!

 

Weeping May Endure for a Night…

 

by Cassandra Lowery

            It was nearly midnight when I finally got home. Only the darkness greeted me as I entered and locked the door of our flat behind me. By force of habit, I dropped my keys into the ceramic dish on the small entryway table. Loosening my tie, I peered into the mirror hanging over the table, barely able to see myself in the glow of the city lights shining through the open windows.

            I looked like crap. Dark shadows encircled beneath my eyes, and my face was paler than usual, bordering on haggard.

            That’s the kind of word she would have used if she were here…”haggard.”

            I turned away from the mirror and paused in the kitchen doorway. Although I had managed to skip both lunch and dinner, I knew that there was no way that I could eat tonight; the knot of pain and grief in my stomach made the mere thought of food seem repulsive. Trying to ignore the slight dizziness that accompanied my lack of sustenance, I dropped onto the sofa—our sofa. Bella had loved it at first sight, choosing it for its comfort and for its rather shabby, “homey” appearance.

            She was so wise in such things.

            Most of my colleagues’ wives were focused on spending their physician husbands’ pay as quickly as it was earned, frittering away huge sums on designer clothing and spa treatments, decorating and redecorating their expensive homes as their main occupation, and sporting the latest model BMW, Audi, or Mercedes-Benz.

            Not my Bella.

            God, I missed her.    

            I rubbed at the persistent ache in my chest.

            She had decorated our home with estate sale finds, getting up at ungodly hours nearly every Saturday morning to comb through the eclectic neighborhoods of Chicago, dragging home a bureau, a bookcase, an end table, an armchair, or some other “amazing find”—along with stacks and stacks of ancient books that she “just couldn’t resist.”

            When I objected to the number of books she trundled home, she’d grin unrepentantly and declare that it was the price I had to pay for marrying a writer.

            How I adored that mischievous grin….

            My fingertips massaged the heavy sensation in my chest—I was literally heart-sore with missing her—and swallowed hard, blinking as I glanced around. Our living room looked more like a 19th-century English gentleman’s library than a 21st-century flat in Chicago, but we both loved the warmth of the book-lined walls, the collection of candles and antique clocks grouped on the fireplace mantel, and the slightly worn furniture, comfortable and well-broken-in, that created the feeling of a home rather than merely a habitation or a showplace.