There’s a crazy lady in my living room.
She’s a runaway train, hijacked by an inner demon. Her lips curl as she spits bitter vulgarities. She paces, face flushed with rage. Heels strike angry staccato on hardwood, like a heartbeat.
Before her, husband and friend, exchange private, amused glances. Who smiles at a time like this? She pleads, accuses. They’re unmoved, sitting too close together on the ugly floral couch she paid for. Their smugness fuels her thunder.
Get out, she screams.
A purse, two jackets, are pitched into the driveway. The drizzling rain is anticlimactic – for she’s a hurricane. The weather should be sympathetic, an unrestrained tempest.
They look at her, stunned expressions on their faces. She’s no longer cowed, and it seems to surprise them.
Gathering their sodden belongings, they leave without apology. It matters not; she’s no longer capable of listening to trite excuses.
As they drive away, headlights spotlight her through the window. She sinks to the floor, too exhausted to cry.
There’s a broken lady in my living room. I’m beginning to suspect she’s me.